Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest 19 TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING. 1 CHLORIS! yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell 2 That eagle's fate1 and mine are one, Wherewith he wont to soar so high. 3 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice, the boy had burn'd. TO THE MUTABLE FAIR. HERE, Cælia! for thy sake I part The faith, the love, the constancy! 1 'Eagle's fate': Byron copies this thought in his verses on Kirke White. And, that I may successful prove, Now will I wander through the air, And with your various thoughts comply. As we their names and courses know; 5 10 20 30 Your Thyrsis lately, when he thought A fate for which he grieves the less, Possess'd, appears a wand'ring stream; And stands amazed to find his dear A wild inhabitant of the air. To these old tales such nymphs as you And then he swears he'll not complain; Is all the pleasure lovers know; Not in the quarry, but the flight. TO A LADY, FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED A SILVER PEN. 1 MADAM! intending to have tried The silver favour which you gave, In ink the shining point I dyed, And drench'd it in the sable wave; When, grieved to be so foully stain'd, On you it thus to me complain'd. 2 'Suppose you had deserved to take So ill a change, who ever won 3 'I, that expressed her commands To mighty lords, and princely dames, Always most welcome to their hands, Proud that I would record their names, Must now be taught an humble style, Some meaner beauty to beguile!' 4 So I, the wronged pen to please, Make it my humble thanks express Unto your ladyship, in these: And now 'tis forced to confess TO CHLORIS. CHLORIS! since first our calm of peace And growing mischiefs make you kind. So the fair tree, which still preserves Her fruit and state while no wind blows, In storms from that uprightness swerves, And the glad earth about her strows With treasure, from her yielding boughs. TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT. 1 SEES not my love how time resumes The glory which he lent these flowers? Though none should taste of their perfumes, Yet must they live but some few hours: Time what we forbear devours! 2 Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,1 3 Should some malignant planet bring A barren drought, or ceaseless shower, And spare us neither fruit nor flower; 16 'Egyptian Queen': Cleopatra. |