The youth whom fav'ring Heaven's decree
To join his fate, my Fair! with thee;
And see that lovely head of thine
With fondness on his arm recline:
No thought but joy can fill his mind,
Nor any care can entrance find,
Nor sickness hurt, nor terror shake, —
And Death will spare him, for thy sake!
For the bright flowing of thy hair,
That decks a face so heavenly fair;
And a fair form, to match that face,
The rival of the Cygnet's grace.
When with calm dignity she moves,
Where the clear stream her hue improves;
Where she her snowy bosom laves,
And floats, majestic, on the waves.
Grace gave thy form, in beauty gay,
And rang'd thy teeth in bright array;
All tongues with joy thy praises tell,
And love delights with thee to dwell.
To thee harmonious powers belong,
That add to verse the charms of song;
Soft melody to numbers join,
And make the Poet half divine.
As when the softly blushing rose
Close by some neighbouring lilly grows;
Such is the glow thy cheeks diffuse,
And such their bright and blended hues!
The timid lustre of thine eye
With Nature's purest tints can vie;
With the sweet blue-bell's azure gem,
That droops upon its modest stem!
The Poets of Ierne's plains
To thee devote their choicest strains;
And oft their harps for thee are strung,
And oft thy matchless charms are sung:
Thy voice, that binds the list'ning soul, —
That can the wildest rage controul;
Bid the fierce Crane its powers obey,
And charm him from his finney prey.
Nor doubt I of its wond'rous art;
Nor hear with unimpassion'd heart;
Thy health, thy beauties, — ever dear!
Oft crown my glass with sweetest cheer!
Since the fam'd Fair of ancient days,
Whom Bards and Worlds conspir'd to praise,
Not one like thee has since appear'd,
Like thee, to every heart endear'd.
How blest the Bard, O lovely Maid!
To find thee in thy charms array'd! —
Thy pearly teeth, — thy flowing hair, —
Thy neck, beyond the Cygnet, fair! —
As when the simple birds, at night,
Fly round the torch's fatal light, —
Wild, and with extacy elate,
Unconscious of approaching fate.
So the soft splendours of thy face,
And thy fair form's enchanting grace,
Allure to death unwary Love,
And thousands the bright ruin prove!
Ev'n he whose hapless eyes no ray
Admit from Beauty's cheering day;
Yet, though he cannot see the light,
He feels it warm, and knows it bright.
In beauty, talents, taste refin'd,
And all the graces of the mind,
In all unmatch'd thy charms remain,
Nor meet a rival on the plain.
Thy slender foot, — thine azure eye, —
Thy smiling lip, of scarlet dye, —
Thy tapering hand, so soft and fair, —
The bright redundance of thy hair! —
O blest be the auspicious day
That gave them to thy Poet's lay!
O'er rival Bards to lift his name,
Inspire his verse, and swell his fame! — —
To join his fate, my Fair! with thee;
And see that lovely head of thine
With fondness on his arm recline:
No thought but joy can fill his mind,
Nor any care can entrance find,
Nor sickness hurt, nor terror shake, —
And Death will spare him, for thy sake!
For the bright flowing of thy hair,
That decks a face so heavenly fair;
And a fair form, to match that face,
The rival of the Cygnet's grace.
When with calm dignity she moves,
Where the clear stream her hue improves;
Where she her snowy bosom laves,
And floats, majestic, on the waves.
Grace gave thy form, in beauty gay,
And rang'd thy teeth in bright array;
All tongues with joy thy praises tell,
And love delights with thee to dwell.
To thee harmonious powers belong,
That add to verse the charms of song;
Soft melody to numbers join,
And make the Poet half divine.
As when the softly blushing rose
Close by some neighbouring lilly grows;
Such is the glow thy cheeks diffuse,
And such their bright and blended hues!
The timid lustre of thine eye
With Nature's purest tints can vie;
With the sweet blue-bell's azure gem,
That droops upon its modest stem!
The Poets of Ierne's plains
To thee devote their choicest strains;
And oft their harps for thee are strung,
And oft thy matchless charms are sung:
Thy voice, that binds the list'ning soul, —
That can the wildest rage controul;
Bid the fierce Crane its powers obey,
And charm him from his finney prey.
Nor doubt I of its wond'rous art;
Nor hear with unimpassion'd heart;
Thy health, thy beauties, — ever dear!
Oft crown my glass with sweetest cheer!
Since the fam'd Fair of ancient days,
Whom Bards and Worlds conspir'd to praise,
Not one like thee has since appear'd,
Like thee, to every heart endear'd.
How blest the Bard, O lovely Maid!
To find thee in thy charms array'd! —
Thy pearly teeth, — thy flowing hair, —
Thy neck, beyond the Cygnet, fair! —
As when the simple birds, at night,
Fly round the torch's fatal light, —
Wild, and with extacy elate,
Unconscious of approaching fate.
So the soft splendours of thy face,
And thy fair form's enchanting grace,
Allure to death unwary Love,
And thousands the bright ruin prove!
Ev'n he whose hapless eyes no ray
Admit from Beauty's cheering day;
Yet, though he cannot see the light,
He feels it warm, and knows it bright.
In beauty, talents, taste refin'd,
And all the graces of the mind,
In all unmatch'd thy charms remain,
Nor meet a rival on the plain.
Thy slender foot, — thine azure eye, —
Thy smiling lip, of scarlet dye, —
Thy tapering hand, so soft and fair, —
The bright redundance of thy hair! —
O blest be the auspicious day
That gave them to thy Poet's lay!
O'er rival Bards to lift his name,
Inspire his verse, and swell his fame! — —