University of Virginia Library

Fair youth! to whom kind Fortune has assigned
A frame well fitted to thy graceful mind;
(Thy mind!—whose graver parts by all revered,
Whose gentler virtues are to all endeared!)
Thou! in whose happy nature rest combined
A serious judgment and a wit refined,
Grave when thy duty claims the soldier's part,
Prompt in the field and skilful in thy art:
Gay when the banquet crowns the circling board,
Quick with the sparkling jest and ready word—
All hail, my friend! may it through life be thine
To prosper, and to call thee “friend” be mine!

But say, my Cyril, tell the enquiring Muse,
(To one so courteous can thy lips refuse?)
What biting care, or what sore-wounding dart,
Hath pierced the tender surface of thy heart?
Caused thee to hang the head, to heave the sigh,
And fix thy languid gaze on vacancy?
To commune with thyself in serious mood,
To fly from all in search of Solitude?
Hath robbed thy cheek of all its native hue,
And set the lily where the rose once grew?
Hath sealed thy lips; where merriment once hung,
Hath set grave Silence on thy jocund tongue?

Still wilt thou not confess?—well, be it so!
Discretion wise all prudent lovers know:
Yet all in vain—what thou hast close concealed,
The observant Muse hath for herself revealed,
Tells thee “thou lov'st”—and in thy rash reply
Hears the low murmur of a gracious lie!
O! that the Muse might view the peerless fair,
Her virtues countless, and her beauty rare!
Soon should the groves her well-sung praise resound,
And echo, listening, catch the swelling sound;
While grateful gales the gentle song should bear,
In melodies of dreams to Cyril's ear!
But though thou dost ordain that none should know
The fair inflicter of thy pleasing woe,
And, selfish thus, the exclusive right dost claim
To hold the treasure of thy angel's name,
Yet may the Muse, though unendued with power
To paint the living beauties of the flower,
Tell, as she sails on Fancy's pinion free,
Not what she is, but what thy love should be!

Lo! on the margin of a crystal stream
Whose rippling waters—while the sunset's beam
Kisses the surface with its parting ray—
All sweetly warble to declining day,
A maiden stands!—the waters as they flow
Image her form reflected fair below,
And paint, with happiest imitative art,
Distinct the whole and each minuter part!
Ah! may the Muse, as fortunate as they,
Her faultless charms with equal truth portray!

Silent and motionless beside the stream,
Her soul all wrapt in some divinest dream,
Her every sense in trance ecstatic bound,
She stands unconscious of the scene around!
Loose o'er her limbs a folding drapery thrown,
Sits unconfined, save by a golden zone
Which circling clasps it round her slender waist;
(No modern maiden she, severely laced!)
And now behold! the kindly breezes blow
And lift the garment from that breast of snow,
More white than Parian marble! and the blue
Which streaks that white is of the harebell's hue;
With gentle undulations swells that breast,
As ocean heaves when storms are lulled to rest:
'Tis sweet to slumber rocked upon the deep,
But ah! 'twere rapture on such breast to sleep!
Her naked feet, so tiny and so fair,
Rest on the bank among the wild flowers there:
The flowers of every shape and every shade,
By Nature's hand in glittering hues arrayed,
Show like rare gems, through verdant mosses seen,
Cased in a setting of enamelled green;
But loveliest far of all the gems around
Are those small feet—like pearls, so smooth, so round!
As past the maid the waters wandering go,
They pause a space or e'er they forwards flow,
And, gliding to the bank with murmurs sweet,
They upwards leap and kiss her snowy feet,
Then fast retreating leave the verdant shore,
And onwards babble merrier than before!
But see! she moves—perchance her mind has caught
From out its musings some more happy thought,
Which prompts her thus to raise her downcast eyes
And lift them radiant to the ruddy skies!
Bright are those orbs as is the sapphire's blaze
Which shines resplendent with emitted rays;
Of equal fire, so of congenial hue,
Those eyes are bathed in clear crystalline blue;
The long-drawn lash which from the lid depends
A softening shadow to their lustre lends,
Tempers the fire which from beneath them darts,
And to their blue a deeper tint imparts.
Smooth is her brow! as yet remorseless Care,
With ruthless hand, hath ploughed no furrow there:
There bright Intelligence alone doth shine,
The god-like tenant of a throne divine!
Her cheek's pure tint is like the healthful glow
Which ripening blushes on the peach bestow;
Her lips are red as roses in their bloom,
And sweet as roses is her breath's perfume;
Her glossy hair, of dark luxuriant brown,
In rich profusion sweeps her form adown;
No silken fillets those long locks resist,
Which in thick clusters fall where'er they list;
No need has she Art's service to employ,
Art could not beautify, and might destroy,
Nature most richly, from her ample store,
Hath decked that head, and Art could do no more.
That fairy form, adorned by every grace!
The fascination of that saintlike face!
The perfect mould of that soft swelling breast,
The stamp of beauty on each limb impressed!
These who may sing? the trembling Muse surveys,
Glows as she sees, and knows not how to praise,
Beholds that form of symmetry divine,
And lacks the art its graces to define!
But ah! if this be Cyril's angel here,
Well is his love bestowed! “Fair youth, appear!”
Unnumbered voices rend the happy skies,
“Come, Cyril, come—and claim thy worthy prize:
“May the kind dews of Heaven fall from above,
“With richest blessings to anoint thy love!”
And now behold! fast fall the shades of Night,
And the fair vision fades before my sight;
One long, one lingering look!—the dream is o'er,
The spell dissolved, and I entranced no more!

My friend! for whom this simple lyre was strung,
If the fond Muse hath pleased thee as she sung,
And tuned her lay according to thy will,
Happy the Muse!—her votary happier still!