University of Virginia Library


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THE MAID THAT LOVED THE MOON.

Throw back the locks redundant from those eyes,
Young Florimel! and o'er this moss-grown bench
While bending hawthorns shower
Their blooms, my strange tale hear.
Where stands yon Rustic, there last night I stood,
Beneath the brow of that monastic Arch:
Scarce breath'd the drowsy winds;
The waters caroll'd out
To the pleased Moon; who ne'er with sweeter grace
On Latmus listen'd to the Boy she loved;
Touched by her serious beam
The pale hills sadly smiled.
Soon through those rustling lilachs I beheld
A shape of beauty glide in robes of white:
Hither her steps were bent;
And, ere this seat she gain'd,
Through the long grass a tall majestic Bird
Came floating, to salute the well-known form;
'Twas such as Hebe yoked
To Juno's golden car.
But not with Argus' hundred eyes adorn'd,
Nor freak'd with orient tints like Iris' wings;
White where its quivering plumes
As Juno's milky way.
The stately tenants too of yon green isle,
The Swans, came plunging from their secret bed,
To welcome to their stream
The Wanderer of the Night.
Winnowing the water-lilies as they turn'd
With snowy pinions, by this bank they sail'd,
With fond familiar court
Acknowledging their queen.

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Who with bland voice repaid them, and, the while,
With playful fingers the tall Bird caress'd
That proudly trail'd its fan,
Like lucid ivory carved.
These in the moonlight shining—-this fair Bird,
Those spotless Swans, and warbling crystal stream,
And, most, the white-robed Maid,
Beneath this tent of blooms,
Form'd a delightful picture, lovelier far
Than sad Autonoe's hapless hunter saw
By that sequester'd fount,
The secret bath of Nymphs.
To crown the spell, the visionary Maid,
Fixing her dark eyes on the silvery orb,
Sung a fantastic song,
An anthem to the Moon.
Strains wilder issued never from the lips
Of Troy's pale Prophetess, nor mellower tones
Flow'd from the rocky Isles,
The lingering sail to charm.
And charm'd were all that heard her—the tall Bird
Beside her cower'd feet still as a tuft of snow;
The Swans like Halcyons sate
Upon their liquid bed;
And I as if a Spirit sung stood awed:
Yet well I knew the' Enchantress;—'twas that pale
Proud Maid, the Baron's Child,
The Light of Alan-tower.