Ivy round her glimmering ancle, Vine about her glowing brow, Never sure was bride so beauteous, Daphne, chosen nymph, as thou!
Thus he nears! and now she feels him Breathing hot on every limb; And he hears her own quick pantings— Ah! that they might be for him.
O, that like the flower he tramples, Bending from his golden tread, Full of fair celestial ardours, She would bow her bridal head.
O, that like the flower she presses, Nodding from her lily touch, Light as in the harmless breezes, She would know the god for such!
See! the golden arms are round her— To the air she grasps and clings! See! his glowing arms have wound her— To the sky she shrieks and springs!
See! the flushing chace of Tempe Trembles with Olympian air— See! green sprigs and buds are shooting From those white raised arms of prayer!
In the earth her feet are rooting!— Breasts and limbs and lifted eyes, Hair and lips and stretching fingers, Fade away—and fadeless rise.
And the god whose fervent rapture Clasps her finds his close embrace Full of palpitating branches, And new leaves that bud apace,
Bound his wonder-stricken forehead;— While in ebbing measures slow Sounds of softly dying pulses Pause and quiver, pause and go;
Go, and come again, and flutter On the verge of life,—then flee! All the white ambrosial beauty Is a lustrous Laurel Tree!
Still with the great panting love-chase All its running sap is warmed;— But from head to foot the virgin Is transfigured and transformed.
Changed!—yet the green Dryad nature Is instinct with human ties, And above its anguish’d lover Breathes pathetic sympathies;
Sympathies of love and sorrow; Joy in her divine escape; Breathing through her bursting foliage Comfort to his bending shape.
Vainly now the floating Naiads Seek to pierce the laurel maze, Nought but laurel meets their glances, Laurel glistens as they gaze.
Nought but bright prophetic laurel! Laurel over eyes and brows, Over limbs and over bosom, Laurel leaves and laurel boughs!
And in vain the listening Dryad Shells her hand against her ear!— All is silence—save the echo Travelling in the distance drear.
THERE stands a singer in the street, He has an audience motley and meet; Above him lowers the London night, And around the lamps are flaring bright.