THE

SNOW-SPIRIT. ·

TU POTES INSOLITAS, CYNTHIA, FERRE NIVES?

Propert. Lib. 1, Eleg. 8.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep

An island of lovelier charms;

It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
Like Hebe in Hercules' arms!

The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye,
Their melody balm to the ear;

But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,
And the Snow-Spirit never comes here!

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl Thy lips for their cabinet stole,

And it falls on the green earth, as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the soul!

Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death, As he cradles the birth of the year;

Bright are your bowers, and balmy their breath, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!

How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,
And brightening the bosom of morn,

He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil
O'er the brow of each virginal thorn!
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts,
Is the veil of a vestal severe;

No, no, thou wilt see what a moment it lasts,
Should the Snow Spirit ever come here!

But fly to his region-lay open thy zone,
And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,
Should not melt in the day-beam like him!
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet
O'er his luminous path will appear—
Fly, fly! my beloved! this island is sweet,

But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!

Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ημίν και ό,τι μεν όνομα τη νήσω, εκ οίδα χρυση

av πgos ye eμs ovoμaZorro..Philostrat. Icon. 17, Lib. 2.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many a bending sea-grape * drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar

That wing'd me round this fairy shore!

'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs !
Oh for a naiad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour!

A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,
And, light along the water's brim,
I steer'd my gentle bark by him;

* The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.

For fancy told me, love had sent

This snowy bird of blandishment,

To lead me, where my soul should meet-
I knew not what, but something sweet!

Blest be the little pilot dove!

He had indeed been sent by love,
To guide me to a scene so dear,
As fate allows but seldom here;

One of those rare and brilliant hours,
Which, like the aloe's * lingering flowers,
May blossom to the eye of man

But once in all his weary span !

Just where the margin's opening shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird repos'd his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom,

Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair!

What spell, what magic rais'd her there!
'Twas NEA! slumbering calm and mild,
And bloomy as the dimpled child,
Whose spirit in elysium keeps

Its playful sabbath while he sleeps!

* The Agave. I know that this is an erroneous idea; but it is quite true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a poet to be « three removes from truth ;” τριτατος απο της αληθείας.

The broad banana's green embrace

Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace; One little beam alone could win

The leaves to let it wander in,

And, stealing over all her charms,
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
It glanc'd around a fiery kiss,

All trembling, as it went, with bliss!

Her eyelid's black and silken fringe
Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,
Like the first ebon cloud, that closes
Dark on evening's heaven of roses!
Her glances, though in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid,
And o'er her lip's reflecting dew
A soft and liquid lustre threw,
Such as, declining dim and faint,
The lamp of some beloved saint
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath!

Was ever witchery half so sweet!
Think, think how all my pulses beat,
As o'er the rustling bank I stole—
Oh! you, that know the lover's soul,
It is for you to dream the bliss,
The tremblings of an hour like this!