The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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| II. |
 | III. |
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MORNING. ANACREONTIC. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
294
MORNING. ANACREONTIC.
The sun now climbs the eastern hill;
Awake, my love! thine eyes unclose!
Hark! near our hut the limpid rill
Calls thee, soft tinkling, from repose!
The lark soars high above thy couch of rest;
And on the plain the hunter's cries
Call echo from the misty skies:
Awake, my love! those glances meet,
Which promise hours of blisses sweet!
Awake, my love! thine eyes unclose!
Hark! near our hut the limpid rill
Calls thee, soft tinkling, from repose!
The lark soars high above thy couch of rest;
And on the plain the hunter's cries
Call echo from the misty skies:
Awake, my love! those glances meet,
Which promise hours of blisses sweet!
The dew-pearls fall from ev'ry flow'r—
See how they glitter o'er the heath!
While balmy breathings fill the bow'r
Where love still sighs with softer breath.
'Tis time to wake, my love! the day
On sunny wing flies swift away:
Noon will thy velvet cheek annoy,
And ev'ning's dews will damp thy joy:
Then wake, my love! and ope thine eyes,
As bright, as blue, as summer skies!
See how they glitter o'er the heath!
While balmy breathings fill the bow'r
Where love still sighs with softer breath.
'Tis time to wake, my love! the day
On sunny wing flies swift away:
295
And ev'ning's dews will damp thy joy:
Then wake, my love! and ope thine eyes,
As bright, as blue, as summer skies!
We'll hunt the rein-deer, chase the boar,
Thou shalt my Atalanta be!
And when our sportive toil is o'er,
Venus shall snatch a grace from thee!
Young Bacchus shall his ivy band
Receive from thy soft snowy hand;
And time his scythe aside shall fling,
While rosy rapture holds his wing:
Then wake, my love! the sun his beam
Darts golden on the rapid stream.
Thou shalt my Atalanta be!
And when our sportive toil is o'er,
Venus shall snatch a grace from thee!
Young Bacchus shall his ivy band
Receive from thy soft snowy hand;
And time his scythe aside shall fling,
While rosy rapture holds his wing:
Then wake, my love! the sun his beam
Darts golden on the rapid stream.
Thy cheek shall bloom, as Hebe's fair;
Thy lip shall steep'd in honey be;
The graces shall entwine thy hair;
The loves shall weave a zone for thee:
Thy feet shall bound across the waste,
Like Daphne's by Apollo chas'd;
And ev'ry breeze that round thee blows,
Shall bring the fragrance of the rose.
Then come, my love! thy hours employ
No more in dreams—but wake to joy.
Thy lip shall steep'd in honey be;
The graces shall entwine thy hair;
The loves shall weave a zone for thee:
Thy feet shall bound across the waste,
Like Daphne's by Apollo chas'd;
And ev'ry breeze that round thee blows,
Shall bring the fragrance of the rose.
Then come, my love! thy hours employ
No more in dreams—but wake to joy.
296
I hear thy voice, I see those orbs
As blue, as brilliant as the day;
Thy vermil lip the dew absorbs,
And scents thy breath like op'ning May:
Upon thy dimpled cheek the hue
Of summer's blushing buds I view;
And on thy bosom's spotless glow,
The whiteness of the mountain snow:
Ah! close those eyes again—for see,
All nature is eclips'd by thee!
As blue, as brilliant as the day;
Thy vermil lip the dew absorbs,
And scents thy breath like op'ning May:
Upon thy dimpled cheek the hue
Of summer's blushing buds I view;
And on thy bosom's spotless glow,
The whiteness of the mountain snow:
Ah! close those eyes again—for see,
All nature is eclips'd by thee!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |