FRAGMENT XLV.
WHIM.
“In quel viso furbarello
V'e un incognita magia
Non si sa diavol sia!
Ma fa l'uomo, delivar.”
Gay soul of every piquante charm
That can the torpid senses warm,
Mistress of the Non sa che
Toute ensemble, sweet Naivité!
Darting from thy unfixed eye
The pointed glance of meaning sly,
Flinging round with comic air
The shaft that wounds cold “wrinkled care;”
Thy brow with many a feather crown'd,
In many a different climate found,
Thy robe of every rainbow hue,
As bright, as gay, as changeful too;
Thy girdle by the graces wove,
And breath'd on by the queen of love;
Or gay or grave, still sure to please
With novel airs and playful ease;
Before th' enchantment of thine eye
Dull beauty's fair disciples fly;
Man worshipping variety,
Finds all its magic charms in thee.
And I invoke thee, winning maid!
When the spell of youth shall fade,
To touch the alter'd form and face
With thine own bewitching grace;
When time shall pale my life's fresh flow'r,
Oh give me then thy bizarre pow'r!
Let me, oh Whim! thy cestus wear,
And make the stupid many stare,
With gay caprice, and outré thought,
The petit pointe, the pun unsought,
The bon trovaté, tour d'expression,
And all that's in thine own possession;
Thus, thus the pow'r of age disarming,
Thus ever changing, ever charming.
