—whether it existed before or not—for I have the same idea of all our passions as of Love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty. In a word, you may know my favourite speculation by my first Book, and the little Song I sent in my last, which is a representation from the fancy of the probable mode of operating in these matters.'
Unfelt, unheard, unseen,
I 've left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah! through their nestling touch,
Who—who could tell how much
There is for madness—cruel, or complying?
Those faery lids how sleek!
Those lips how moist!—they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
Into my fancy's ear
Melting a burden dear,
How 'Love doth know no fulness, and no bounds.'
True!—tender monitors!
I bend unto your laws:
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
So, without more ado,
I 'll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.
ON
Published with the date 1817 by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters and Literary Remains, but slightly varied in form when reprinted in the Aldine edition.
Think not of it, sweet one, so;—
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any—any where.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,—
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop, then it is gone,
Oh! 't was born to die!
Still so pale? then dearest weep;
Weep, I 'll count the tears,
For each will I invent a bliss
For thee in after years.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are more tender still.
Yet—as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses;
E'en let us too; but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.
ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER
This sonnet was printed in 1829 in The Gem, a Literary Annual, edited by Thomas Hood. It is not dated, but may fairly be assigned to this time.
Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly,
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea:
'T is young Leander toiling to his death;
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile:
He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!
ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, 'THE STORY OF RIMINI'
Dated 1817 in the Life, Letters and Literary Remains, and placed next after the preceding.
