To ----

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,     O what wonders had been told     Of thy lively countenance,     And thy humid eyes that dance     In the midst of their own brightness;     In the very fane of lightness.     Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,     Picture out each lovely meaning:     In a dainty bend they lie,     Like to streaks across the sky,     Or the feathers from a crow,     Fallen on a bed of snow.     Of thy dark hair that extends     Into many graceful bends:     As the leaves of Hellebore     Turn to whence they sprung before.     And behind each ample curl     Peeps the richness of a pearl.     Downward too flows many a tress     With a glossy waviness;     Full, and round like globes that rise     From the censer to the skies     Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness     Of thy honied voice; the neatness     Of thine ankle lightly turn'd:     With those beauties, scarce discern'd,     Kept with such sweet privacy,     That they seldom meet the eye     Of the little loves that fly     Round about with eager pry.     Saving when, with freshening lave,     Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;     Like twin water lillies, born     In the coolness of the morn.     O, if thou hadst breathed then,     Now the Muses had been ten.     Couldst thou wish for lineage higher     Than twin sister of Thalia?     At least for ever, evermore,     Will I call the Graces four.     Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry     Lifted up her lance on high,     Tell me what thou wouldst have been?     Ah! I see the silver sheen     Of thy broidered, floating vest     Covring half thine ivory breast;     Which, O heavens! I should see,     But that cruel destiny     Has placed a golden cuirass there;     Keeping secret what is fair.     Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested     Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:     Oer which bend four milky plumes     Like the gentle lillys blooms     Springing from a costly vase.     See with what a stately pace     Comes thine alabaster steed;     Servant of heroic deed!     O'er his loins, his trappings glow     Like the northern lights on snow.     Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!     Sign of the enchanter's death;     Bane of every wicked spell;     Silencer of dragon's yell.     Alas! thou this wilt never do:     Thou art an enchantress too,     And wilt surely never spill     Blood of those whose eyes can kill.