Not all the brilliant beauties I have seen, Mid the gay splendors of some Southern hall, In jewelled grandeur, or in plainest mien, Did so my fancy and my heart enthral, As doth this noble woman, Nature’s queen! Such hearty greeting from her lips did fall, And I ennobled was through her esteem; At once made sharer of her confidence, As by enchantment of some rapturous dream; With subtler vision gifted, finer sense, She loosed my tongue’s refraining diffidence, And softer accents lent our varying theme: So much my Lady others doth surpass, I read them all through her transparent glass.
“They love indeed who quake to say they love.” Sir Philip Sidney.
IV.
The April rains are past, the frosts austere,— The flowers are hungering for the genial sun, The snow’s dissolved, the merry birds are here, And rural labors now are well begun. Hither, from the disturbing, noisy Court I’ve flown to this sequestered, quiet scene, To meditate on Love and Love’s disport Mid these smooth pastures and the meadows green. Sure ’twere no fault of mine, no whispering sin, If these coy leaves he sends me seem to speak All that my heart, caressing, folds within; Nor if I sought to smother, my flushed cheek Would tell too plainly what I cannot hide, Fond fancy disenchant nor set aside.
“Love is the life of friendship, letters are The life of love, the loadstones that by rare Attraction make souls meet, and melt, and mix, As when by fire exalted gold we fix.” Howel.
V.
Most precious leaves the mail delights to bring, All loving parcels, neatly squared and sealed; Her buoyant fancy trims its glossy wing, And flits courageous o’er Love’s flowery field. Sure ’tis a tender and a sparkling flame That letters kindle and do sweetly feed; Wilt fly, schoolmaster, for such noble game? Maiden that doth all other maids exceed! She writes with passion, and a nimble wit, Void of all pedantry and vain pretence, With native genius forcible and fit, A flowing humor and surpassing sense: Who gains her heart will win a precious prize, And fortunate be in every lover’s eyes.
“This place may seem for lovers’ leisure made, So close those elms inweave their lofty shade. The twining woodbine, how it climbs to breathe Refreshing sweets around us; all beneath, The ground with grass of cheerful green bespread, Through which the springing flower uprears its head. Lo, here are kingcups of a golden hue, Medleyed with daisies white and endive blue, And honeysuckles of a purple dye: Confusion gay! bright waving to the eye.” Ambrose Phillips.
VI.