Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East; 19 TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING. 1 CHLORIS! yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, Of my own teaching, I am caught. 2 That eagle's fate1 and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, 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 passion that I had for thee, 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, Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly, 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, Lays greedy hold upon a bird, 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 And drench'd it in the sable wave; 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 That your great self did ne'er indite, Nor that, to one more noble, write. TO CHLORIS. CHLORIS! since first our calm of peace So the fair tree, which still preserves kind. 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. |