Free from all corporeal pains,

Free from flesh, and free from veins;

Thy aerial texture vies

With th' unbodied Deities.

TO A PAINTER.

BEST of Painters! now dispense

All thy tinted eloquence:

Master of the roseate art,
Paint the mistress of my heart.
Paint her, absent though she be,
Paint her, as described by me.

Paint her hair in tresses flowing:
Black as jet its ringlets glowing :
If the pallet soar so high,
Paint their humid fragrancy.

Let the colour smoothly show

The gentle prominence of brow;

Smooth as ivory let it shine,

Under locks of glossy twine.

Now her eyebrows length'ning bend;

Neither sever them, nor blend:

Imperceptible the space

Of their meeting arches trace:

Be the picture like the maid;

Her dark eye-lids fringed with shade. Now the real glance inspire;

Let it dart a liquid fire:

Let her eyes reflect the day,

Like Minerva's, hazel-gray,

Like those of Venus, swimming bright,

Brimful of moisture and of light.

Now her faultless nose design

In its flowing aquiline:

Let her cheeks transparent gleam,
Like to roses, strew'd in cream:
Let her lips seduce to bliss,
Pouting to provoke the kiss.

Now her chin minute express,
Rounded into prettiness:
There let all the Graces play;
In that dimpled circle stray;
Round her bended neck delay:
Marble pillar, on the sight
Shedding smooth its slippery white.
For the rest, let drapery swim

In purplish folds o'er every limb;

But, with flimsy texture, show

The shape, the skin, that partial glow: Enough-herself appears; 'tis done;

The picture breathes; the paint will speak

anon.

LOVE SWALLOWED IN WINE.

As once a wreath of flowers I wove,
I found, among the roses, Love :
Fast by his wings the boy I clipp'd,
And in my wine immerging dipp'd;
And, as he struggled in the cup,

I gulp'd the draught, and drank him up.
Within me, now, the flutterer springs
From vein to vein with tickling wings.

A VERNAL WALK.

WHAT lovelier pastime ere has been,
Than forth to walk, when meads are green;
When the west-wind whispers by

With its softest, sweetest sigh:

To mark the blossom of the vine,
And under its broad leaves recline:
Folding a tender girl, whose lip
Breathes all of Venus, as I sip?