 | Poems |  |
85
STANZAS TO MAIA, LOOKING AT A PICTURE.
See, what a lovely picture's here!
Ting'd with rapture's brightest hue,
A Lover, sitting by his dear;—
Just, my Love, like me and you.
What magic had the painter's hand,
For, while we gaze, we scent the flowers,
And almost feel the Zephyrs bland,
That seem to cool those trellis'd bowers.
Ting'd with rapture's brightest hue,
A Lover, sitting by his dear;—
Just, my Love, like me and you.
What magic had the painter's hand,
For, while we gaze, we scent the flowers,
And almost feel the Zephyrs bland,
That seem to cool those trellis'd bowers.
Look at the youth! Love's in his eye,
His slender form beams ripe for bliss;
He seems to whisper “No one's nigh,
Then grant, dear maid, the promis'd kiss!”
Look at that maid, what burning blushes
Are mantling on her rich young cheek;
See from her eye what brilliance gushes,
Ah! more than worlds of words they speak.
His slender form beams ripe for bliss;
He seems to whisper “No one's nigh,
Then grant, dear maid, the promis'd kiss!”
86
Are mantling on her rich young cheek;
See from her eye what brilliance gushes,
Ah! more than worlds of words they speak.
See his fond arm how gently twining
Around her soft retiring waist;
And see his lip, how blandly joining
Her melting cheek, so warmly chaste.
Ah! as it glows in colours warm,
It is a picture fair to see;
But we a sweeter one could form,
One, dearest, in reality!
Around her soft retiring waist;
And see his lip, how blandly joining
Her melting cheek, so warmly chaste.
Ah! as it glows in colours warm,
It is a picture fair to see;
But we a sweeter one could form,
One, dearest, in reality!
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