( 63 )
When the stung heart feels keen desire,
And through each vein pours liquid fire;
When with flush'd cheeks and burning eyes,
Thy lover to thy bosom flies;
Believe, dear maid, believe my vow,
By Venus' self, I swear, 'tis true!
More bright the higher beauties shine,
Illum' d by that strange bower of thine.
What thought sublime, what lofty strain
Its wondrous virtues can explain?
No place howe'er remote, can be
From its intense attraction free;
Tho' more elastic far than steel.
Its force ten thousand needles feel;
Pleas'd their high temper to resign,
In that magnetic bower of thine.
Irriguous vale, embrown'd with shades,
Which no intrinsic storm pervades!
Soft clime, where native summer glows!
And nectar's living current flows!
Not Tempe's vale, renowned of yore,
Of charms could boast such endless store:
More than Elysian sweets combine,
To grace that smiling bower of thine.
O may no rash invader stain,
Love's warm, sequestered virgin fane!
For me alone let gentle fate,
Preserve the dear august retreat!
Along its banks when shall I stray?
The beauteous landscape when survey?
How long in fruitless anguish pine,
Nor view unveil'd that bower of thine.
O! let my tender, trembling hand,
The awful gate of life expand!
With all its wonders feast my sight;
Dear prelude to immense delight!
Till plung'd in liquid joy profound,
The dark unfathom'd deep I sound;
All panting on thy breast recline,
And, murmuring, bless that bower of thine.