Thou, whose soft and rosy hues, Mimic form and soul infuse; Best of painters! come portray The lovely maid that's far away.

Far away, my soul! thou art, But I've thy beauties all by heart.

Paint her jetty ringlets straying, Silky twine in tendrils playing; And, if painting hath the skill To make the spicy balm distil, Let every little lock exhale A sigh of perfume on the gale.

Where her tresses' curly flow Darkles o'er the brow of snow, Let her forehead beam to light, Burnish'd as the ivory bright.

Let her eyebrows sweetly rise In jetty arches o'er her eyes, Gently in her crescent gliding, Just commingling, just dividing.

But hast thou any sparkles warm, The lightning of her eyes to form?

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Let them effuse the azure ray With which Minerva's glances play, And give them all that liquid fire That Venus' languid eyes respire.

O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and mellow'd red; Gradual tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Then her lip, so rich in blisses!

Sweet pet.i.tioner for kisses!

Pouting nest of bland persuasion, Ripely suing Love's invasion.

Then beneath the velvet chin, Whose dimple shades a love within, Mould her neck with grace descending.

In a heaven of beauty ending; While airy charms, above, below, Sport and flutter on its snow.

Now let a floating, lucid veil, Shadow her limbs, but not, conceal; A charm may peep, a hue may beam, And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.

Enough--'tis she! 'tis all I seek; It glows, it lives, it soon will speak.

_ODE XXII._

And now with all thy pencil's truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!

Let his hair in lapses bright, Fall like streaming rays of light, And there the raven's dye confuse With the yellow sunbeam's hues.

Let not the braid, with artful twine, The flowing of his locks confine; But loosen every golden ring, To float upon the breeze's wing, Beneath the front of polished glow.

Front as fair as mountain-snow, And guileless as the dews of dawn,

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Let the majestic brows be drawn, Of ebon dies, enriched by gold, Such as the scaly snakes unfold.

Mingle in his jetty glances, Power that awes, and love that trances; Steal from Venus bland desire, Steal from Mars the look of fire, Blend them in such expression here, That we by turns may hope and fear!

Now from the sunny apple seek The velvet down that spreads his cheek; And there let Beauty's rosy ray In flying blushes richly play; Blushes, of that celestial flame Which lights the cheek of virgin shame.

Then for his lips, that ripely gem-- But let thy mind imagine them!

Paint, where the ruby cell uncloses, Persuasion sleeping upon roses; And give his lip that speaking air, As if a word was hovering there!

His neck of ivory splendour trace, Moulded with soft but manly grace; Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy, Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy.

Give him the winged Hermes' hand.

With which he waves his snaky wand: Let Bacchus then the breast supply, And Leda's son the sinewy thigh.

But oh! suffuse his limbs of fire With all that glow of young desire,

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Which kindles, when the wishful sigh Steals from the heart, unconscious why.

Thy pencil, though divinely bright, Is envious of the eye's delight, Or its enamoured touch would shew His shoulder, fair as sunless snow, Which now in veiling shadow lies, Removed from all but Fancy's eyes, Now, for his feet--but hold--forbear-- I see a G.o.dlike portrait there; So like Bathyllus! sure there's none So like Bathyllus but the Sun!

Oh! let this pictured G.o.d be mine, And keep the boy for Samos' shrine; Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be, Bathyllus then the deity!

_ODE XXIII._

One day, the Muses twined the hands Of baby Love, with flowery bands; And to celestial Beauty gave The captive infant as her slave.

His mother comes with many a toy, To ransom her beloved boy; His mother sues, but all in vain!

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He ne'er will leave his chains again.

Nay, should they take his chains away, The little captive still would stay.

'If this,' he cries, 'a bondage be, Who could wish for liberty?'

_ODE XXIV._

Fly not thus my brow of snow, Lovely wanton! fly not so.

Though the wane of age is mine, Though the brilliant flush is thine, Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee, Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!

See, in yonder flowery braid, Cull'd for thee, my blushing maid,

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How the rose, of orient glow, Mingles with the lily's snow; Mark, how sweet their tints agree, Just, my girl, like thee and me!

_ODE XXV._

Methinks, the pictur'd bull we see Is amorous Jove--it must be he!

How fondly blest he seems to bear That fairest of Phoenician fair!

How proud he b.r.e.a.s.t.s the foamy tide And spurns the billowy surge aside!

Could any beast of vulgar vein, Undaunted thus defy the main?

No: he descends from climes above, He looks the G.o.d, he breathes of Jove!

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_ODE XXVI._

Away, away, you men of rules, What have I to do with schools?

They'd make me learn, they'd make me think, But would they make me love and drink?

Teach me this; and let me swim My soul upon the goblet's brim; Teach me this, and let me twine My arms around the nymph divine!

Age begins to blanch my brow, I've time for nought but pleasure now.