TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA.
Ye blushing virgins happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breast;
For he'd profane so chaste a fair
Who e'er should call it Cupid's nest.
Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow!
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden, cowslips so
Are sweeter than i' the open field.
In those white cloisters live secure,
From the rude blasts of wanton breath;
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till ye shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave ye room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be;
There needs no marble for a tomb,—
That breast hath marble been to me!
The epistle to Castara's mother, Lady Eleanor Powis, who appears to have looked kindly on their love, contains some very beautiful lines, in which he asserts the disinterestedness of his affection for Castara, rich as she is in fortune, and derived from the blood of Charlemagne.
My love is envious! would Castara were
The daughter of some mountain cottager,
Who, with his toil worn out, could dying leave
Her no more dower than what she did receive
From bounteous Nature; her would I then lead
To the temple, rich in her own wealth; her head
Crowned with her hair's fair treasure; diamonds in
Her brighter eyes; soft ermines in her skin,
Each India in her cheek, &c.
This first part closes with "the description of Castara," which is extended to several stanzas, of unequal merit. The following compose in themselves a sweet picture:
Like the violet, which alone
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser eye betray'd.
For she's to herself untrue
Who delights i' the public view.
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