Classic Poem

Matter 'tis of pleasant thought,
While my fingers swiftly run,
That for him the purse is wrought,
Who so long my heart hath won!
He will deign the gift to bear!
He will deem it passing fair!

Soft the silk thy Sara weaves
For thy service and delight,
Softer than the velvet leaves
Of the pansy richly dight,
Like a little Queen of old
All in violet and gold!—

Softer than the moss that clings
On the rocks by Derwent's river,
Or the down of Cupid's wings,
His the boy with bow and quiver,
Or the feathers of the dove,
Or thy heart, my gentle Love!—

Softer than young Hylas' beard,
Or Diana's bashful cheek,
Or the strains in woodland heard,
Strains so melancholy meek,
What time Cynthia gives her light,
Goddess excellently bright!

Softer than the wild duck's nest,
Or the peacock's purple neck,
Or the halcyon's plumy vest
Which all radiant hues bedeck!
Softer than the cygnet's breast
By the circling waves carest,—

Or the pulp of melting peach,
Or the baby panther's skin,
Or the young leaves of the beech
When first peeps their tender green,
Or the sea-nymph's streaming locks
Which she dries upon the rocks!—

Softer than the dust that lies
In the foxglove's speckled bell,
Or the tear in Laura's eyes
Springing up from Pity's well,
Or her bosom gently heaving
While her inmost soul is grieving,—

Or the snow-drift lightly pressed,
While the wintry blasts are sobbin',
To thy chill and trembling breast,
O thou fond and gentle Robin!
Or the fleecy summer cloud
Chased by Zephyr piping loud,—

Or the fruit whose lusciousness
Oft my Henry would compare
With the lips he loved to press
Of the Maid he called so fair,
Or his accents sweetly speaking—
Such the silk I have been seeking!

Finer never silk-worm span,
And the colour brightest crimson!
Not the gorgeous ottoman,
Which a Sultan lays his limbs on,
Is with richer silk bespread!
Such a deep and glowing red,

When a summer evening closes,
Tinges all the western sky;
Such those oriental roses
Which the attar scent supply,
Or Aurora's dewy fingers
While within the East she lingers!

Such the hue thy cheek assumes,
Modest Maiden blushing bright!
Such the hue of Robin's plumes
Like my Henry's face of light,
Or the wound in my poor heart
When from him I sadly part!

Crimson is the tint of Joy,
Rosy red Love's proper hue!
Fitter could I not employ
When I weave a purse for you,
You all other joys above!
You my best, my only Love!

Many a ripe and luscious fruit
Glowing in the western isles,
Many a shell and stone and root,
Hidden deep from Phœbus' smiles,
Might in colour likened be
To the purse I weave for thee!

Just so red the ruby wall,
Shedding radiance most divine,
Of Apollo's flaming Hall!
Just so red the mantling wine
Raised aloft in tipsy wassels!
Such this purse adorned with tassels,

Closed by circlets scarce less fair
Than the ring that thou must give me,
When to Hymen thou shalt swear
For thy helpmate to receive me!—
Every ornament thus vaunting
What can such a purse be wanting?

What it wants I shall not name,
Leaving that to shrewd surmise,
'Tis the charm I cannot claim
In my partial Henry's eyes!
'Tis the only good we miss
To complete our perfect bliss!

Were it mine, I need not send
Thus with aching, longing heart
Tokens to my distant friend,
But with him would take my part,
With anticipating zeal
Studying what he would reveal!

Now no more!—this tedious strain
Far too long, I fear, has lasted!
Sure my Henry will complain
Of his time and patience wasted,
And have cause enough to curse
Both the poet and the purse!