Impregn'd with action, and convoked to breathe, Sighs the still form his ardent hands beneath; Electric lustres flash from either eve, O'er its pale cheeks suffusive flushes fly, And glossy damps its clust'ring curls adorn, Like dew-drops bright'ning on the brows of morn. Through nerves that vibrate in unfolding chains, Foams the warm life-blood, excavating veins; 'Till all infused, and organized the whole, The finish'd fabric hails the breathing soul! Then waked tumultuous in th' alarmed breast, Contending passions claim th' etherial guest; And still, as each alternate empire proves, She hopes, she fears, she envies, and she loves; Owns all sensations that deride the span, And eternize the little life of man!
It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a beautiful flower!
Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies, And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed, When dew-drops leave the weeping skies. His tenderest tear of pity shed.
And sacred shall the willow be, That shades the spot where virtue sleeps; And mournful memory weep to see The hallow'd watch affection keeps.
Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease; Soon from his woes the sufferer part, And hail thee at the Throne of Peace
So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb. Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans, Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones. Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came; Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed, Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised; Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force, To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse: Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow; Still she denounced unmitigable woe: Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death, Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath: Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall-- And seem'd herself the emblem of them all!
Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, A point to which each scribbling wight most steer, Or vainly hope for food or favour here; A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale: A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale; Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves, And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives.