Glances of wilderment-it may be fear

On the wild waves behind her; and she clings
Closer and closer to the stately neck

Of that imperial spurner of the spray—
That lord of lowing herds, the milk-white bull!

With unremitting speed the godlike brute, Rejoicing in his glorious freight, moves on:What are the waves to him? they may not stay His ardent course ;—the warring winds may howl With fitful violence round the vessel's prow, And turn it from its track;-the whirlpool's depths May draw it down to never-ending night;

But all their powers conjoined may ne'er prevail
Over this living, beauty-crested bark,

Which proudly dashes on-and on-and on-
To where the towers of Crete lift up their heads
Above the dark blue sea. With what a front-
A stern unyielding front-he stems the wave,
And strains each lusty nerve to gain the strand,
Now swelling on his sight!

Well may we 'count

The Boy-God's power omnipotent, since he
(And sure those witching fables that would prove
His force on human hearts, we half deem true)
Could thus stir up in an immortal's breast
His deep-pervading passion, and incite

Even the Almighty Jove to cede his form—
His own majestic seeming-and imbrute
His mighty spirit in a coil like this,

All for an earthly maiden.

LINES

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.

I.

NAY, reproach me not, sweet one! I still am thine own, Though the world in its toils hath detained me awhile!

The deep vision that spelled my lone bósom is flown, And—a truant to love—I return to thy smile.

It hath ever been thus;-when condemned or deceived By the many I scorned, or the few that I loved; Whilst I breathed my contempt, or in silentness grieved,

It was bliss to remember whose truth I had proved; And the falsehood of friends, the crowd's hollow

decree,

Served to bind me more fondly and firmly to thee!

120

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.

II.

Yes, I still am thine own:-though I sometimes may

mingle,

In lightness of spirit, with fools I despise;

In my heart-my dark heart

―

- dwelling silent and

single,

Is the thought of all others, it soothes me to prize. If I join the loud throng in its madness of mirth,

I but think how much purer our pleasures have been;

If I gaze on the fair-bosomed daughters of earth,
'Tis to turn to thy beauties-of beauty the Queen !
And if from man's dwellings to Nature I flee,
Glen, mountain, and ocean, seem breathing of thee!

III.

When a soft soothing glance from the eye of Affection Breaks my midnight of gloom with its halo divine, How surpassingly sweet is the bright recollection

Of the passionate love ever beaming from thine !

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 121

'Twill beam on me no more.-Yet though Death has bereft me

Of a form such as seraphs from Heaven might adore,— In this image-thy features of beauty are left me,

And the lines of thy soul in my heart's core of core ! Then reproach me not, sweet one! for time shall not

see

The hour that estranges one deep thought of thee!

1818.