miscellaneous poems.
69
'Tis true I've bowed at many a shrine, and bent a willing knee,—
But the poet's soul, in each fair form, saw but a type of thee!
Awhile the beauteous picture traced, by Fancy's graceful hand,
Enthrall'd my senses, and I bowed to Love's supreme command.
Forgive, forgive thine erring one, the phrenzied dream is o'er!
Those lips that breathed of summer flowers, no voice of music bore,—
Those eyes that burned with passions light were false, I broke the spell!
How could I deem my spirit's love in such a form could dwell!
As soon upon the bounding wave, fair nature's gorgeous dress,
Of wreathed buds and fragrant plants, may spread in loveliness;
As the poet's soul, enthrall'd, forget its home, its heavenly birth,
And bow each glorious attribute to a mere child of earth!
But the poet's soul, in each fair form, saw but a type of thee!
Awhile the beauteous picture traced, by Fancy's graceful hand,
Enthrall'd my senses, and I bowed to Love's supreme command.
Forgive, forgive thine erring one, the phrenzied dream is o'er!
Those lips that breathed of summer flowers, no voice of music bore,—
Those eyes that burned with passions light were false, I broke the spell!
How could I deem my spirit's love in such a form could dwell!
As soon upon the bounding wave, fair nature's gorgeous dress,
Of wreathed buds and fragrant plants, may spread in loveliness;
As the poet's soul, enthrall'd, forget its home, its heavenly birth,
And bow each glorious attribute to a mere child of earth!
