This page has been validated.
105
She speaks! and hark that passion-warbled song—
Still, Fancy! still those mazy notes prolong.
Sweet as th' angelic harps, whose rapturous falls
Awake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's Halls!
O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod,
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God!
A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem
To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam:
Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose od'rous boughs
My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows.
When Twilight stole across the fading vale.
To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale;
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast!
On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream, by night,
To soothe my Love with shadows of delight:—
