THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.
(THE DELLA CRUSCANS)
Sonnet I.
Delia at Play.
She held a Cup and Ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt, I watch'd her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,
Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with EAGLE sight,
Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd,
Methought the BALL she play'd with was my HEART;
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?
Sonnet II.
To a Painter attempting Delia's Portrait.
Rash Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY
In all its noontide glory? or portray
The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper'd hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?
Even if thine art could boast such magic might,
Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's EYE,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call
Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: Must thou be told
The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY?
Rash Painter! should the world her charms behold,
Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,
And bend before her form the pagan knee,
Fairer than Venus, daughter of the sea.
Sonnet III.
He proves the Existence of a Soul from his Love for Delia.
Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her everywhere;
Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,
My Goddess-Maid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR,
For LOVE annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary Sol around his bed
Closes the SABLE CURTAINS of the night,
Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When every sound is dead,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to roll
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my Body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I exist A SOUL!
Sonnet IV.
The Poet expresses his Feelings respecting a Portrait in Delia's Parlour.
I would I were that portly gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From books or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the SUNBEAMS of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon my Fair,
And oft my Fair his favour'd form surveys.
O happy picture! still on HER to gaze;
I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the STRONG glance of those divinest charms
Warm him to life, as in the ancient days,
When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.