TO A LADY WHO SPOKE SLIGHTINGLY OF POETS
by: Washington Allston (1779-1843)
- H, censure not the Poet's art,
- Nor think it chills the feeling heart
- To love the gentle Muses.
- Can that which in a stone or flower,
- As if by transmigrating power,
- His gen'rous soul infuses;
-
- Can that for social joys impair
- The heart that like the lib'ral air
- All Nature's self embraces;
- That in the cold Norwegian main,
- Or mid the tropic hurricane
- Her varied beauty traces;
- That in her meanest work can find
- A fitness and a grace combin'd
- In blest harmonious union,
- That even with the cricket holds,
- As if by sympathy of souls,
- Mysterious communion;
- Can that with sordid selfishness
- His wide-expanded heart impress,
- Whose consciousness is loving;
- Who, giving life to all he spies,
- His joyous being multiplies,
- In youthfulness improving?
- Oh, Lady, then, fair queen of Earth,
- Thou loveliest of mortal birth,
- Spurn not thy truest lover;
- Nor censure him whose keener sense
- Can feel thy magic influence
- Where nought the world discover;
- Whose eye on that bewitching face
- Can every source unnumber'd trace
- Of germinating blisses;
- See Sylphids o'er thy forehead weave
- The lily-fibred film, and leave
- It fix'd with honied kisses;
- While some within thy liquid eyes,
- Like minnows of a thousand dies
- Through lucid waters glancing,
- In busy motion to and fro,
- The gems of diamond-beetles sow,
- Their lustre thus enhancing;
- Here some, their little vases fill'd
- With blushes for thy cheek distill'd
- From roses newly blowing,
- Each tiny thirsting pore supply;
- And some in quick succession by
- The down of peaches strewing;
- There others who from hanging bell
- Of cowslip caught the dew that fell
- While yet the day was breaking,
- And o'er thy pouting lips diffuse
- The tincture--still its glowing hues
- Of purple morn partaking:
- Here some, that in the petals prest
- Of humid honeysuckles, rest
- From nightly fog defended,
- Flutter their fragrant wings between,
- Like humming-birds that scarce are seen,
- They seem with air so blended!
- While some, in equal clusters knit.
- On either side in circles flit,
- Like bees in April swarming,
- Their tiny weight each other lend,
- And force the yielding cheek to bend,
- Thy laughing dimples forming.
- Nor, Lady, think the Poet's eye
- Can only outward charms espy,
- Thy form alone adoring--
- Ah, Lady, no: though fair they be.
- Yet he a fairer sight may see,
- Thy lovely soul exploring:
- And while from part to part it flies
- The gentle Spirit he descries,
- Through every line pursuing;
- And feels upon his nature shower
- That pure, that humanizing power,
- Which raises by subduing.
"To a Lady Who Spoke Slightingly of Poets" is reprinted from The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems. Washington Allston. Boston: Cummings and Hillard, 1813. |
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