 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
90
SLENDER'S LOVE-ELEGY
Come, Polyhymnia, heav'nly maid!
Oh deign an humble bard to aid,
Whose heart in tenfold chains is laid,
In Cupid's cage:
To Anna's name I strike the string;
Thence all my pains and pleasures spring:
Yes, I aspire thy praise to sing,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
Oh deign an humble bard to aid,
Whose heart in tenfold chains is laid,
In Cupid's cage:
To Anna's name I strike the string;
Thence all my pains and pleasures spring:
Yes, I aspire thy praise to sing,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
The lustre of thy soft blue eyes,
Thy lip that with the coral vies,
Might bid love's flames the breast surprise
Of stoic sage:
And cold indeed his heart must be,
Who could thy matchless features see,
And not at once exclaim, with me,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
Thy lip that with the coral vies,
Might bid love's flames the breast surprise
Of stoic sage:
And cold indeed his heart must be,
Who could thy matchless features see,
And not at once exclaim, with me,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
Wealth, pow'r, and splendor, I disown:
To them no real joys are known:
Thy unaffected charms alone
My heart engage:
Thou canst alone my bosom fire,
Thou canst alone my muse inspire,
To thee alone I tune the lyre,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
To them no real joys are known:
Thy unaffected charms alone
My heart engage:
Thou canst alone my bosom fire,
Thou canst alone my muse inspire,
To thee alone I tune the lyre,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
91
Against my passion's fond appeal
Should'st thou thy gentle bosom steel,
What pow'r the pangs I then should feel
Could e'er assuage?
To woods, to mountains would I fly;
Thy dear lov'd name unceasing sigh,
Till thousand echoes should reply:
Oh sweet Anne Page!
Should'st thou thy gentle bosom steel,
What pow'r the pangs I then should feel
Could e'er assuage?
To woods, to mountains would I fly;
Thy dear lov'd name unceasing sigh,
Till thousand echoes should reply:
Oh sweet Anne Page!
I cannot boast the art sublime,
Like some great poets of the time,
To sing, in lofty-sounding rhyme,
Of amorous rage:
But Love has taught me to complain;
Love has inspir'd this humble strain;
Then let me not still sigh in vain,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
Like some great poets of the time,
To sing, in lofty-sounding rhyme,
Of amorous rage:
But Love has taught me to complain;
Love has inspir'd this humble strain;
Then let me not still sigh in vain,
Oh sweet Anne Page!
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |