TO IANTHE. Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed; Not in those visions to the heart displaying To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak? 4 Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!-'tis well for me But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, Glance o'er this page; nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast, Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? |