 | Poems |  |
339
SONG.
I said, “O Art, unto my eyes,
“Her matchless charms for ever give!
“In that sweet life that never dies,
“For ever let her beauty live!”
And Art his eager pencil plied
To paint her charms, all charms above;
But soon, “In vain I strive,” he cried,
“O who can paint her—who, but Love?”
“Her matchless charms for ever give!
“In that sweet life that never dies,
“For ever let her beauty live!”
And Art his eager pencil plied
To paint her charms, all charms above;
But soon, “In vain I strive,” he cried,
“O who can paint her—who, but Love?”
I turn'd to Fancy; “To my sight,”
I murmur'd, “from the glowing air,
“O let her gaze my soul delight,
“As if she lived before me there!”
At Fancy's call her image came;
O not her charms, all charms above!
Poor Fancy's cry was but the same;
“O who can paint her—who, but Love?”
I murmur'd, “from the glowing air,
“O let her gaze my soul delight,
“As if she lived before me there!”
At Fancy's call her image came;
O not her charms, all charms above!
Poor Fancy's cry was but the same;
“O who can paint her—who, but Love?”
Then mighty Love, with laughing joy,
The pencil seized with wild delight,
And, ere I well could mark the boy,
She laugh'd in life before my sight;
O who, like him, such brows could draw,
Such dark sweet eyes, all eyes above?
Like him, could paint the charms I saw?
O who can paint her—who, but Love?”
The pencil seized with wild delight,
And, ere I well could mark the boy,
She laugh'd in life before my sight;
O who, like him, such brows could draw,
Such dark sweet eyes, all eyes above?
Like him, could paint the charms I saw?
O who can paint her—who, but Love?”
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