Some banished lover, or some captive maid:
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires;
The virgin’s wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole.
The genius of Byron (in a playful flash) has illuminated our subject with one of his most brilliant passages:—
But words are things: and a small drop of INK,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces