No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep An island of lovelier charms; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, Like Hebe in Hercules' arms. The blush of your bowers is light to the eye, And their melody balm to the ear; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, And the Snow Spirit never comes here.
The down from his wing is as white as the pearl That shines through thy lips when they part, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the heart. Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death, As he cradles the birth of the year; Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.
How sweet to behold him when borne on the gale, And brightening the bosom of morn, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O'er the brow of each virginal thorn. Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts Is the veil of a vestal severe; No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts, Should the Snow Spirit ever come here.
But fly to his region--lay open thy zone, And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom, as white as his own, Should not melt in the daybeam like him. Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appear-- Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.
I stole along the flowery bank, While many a bending seagrape[1] drank The sprinkle of the feathery oar That winged me round this fairy shore.
'Twas noon; and every orange bud Hung languid o'er the crystal flood, Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes When love-thoughts in her bosom rise. Oh, for a naiad's sparry bower, To shade me in that glowing hour!
A little dove, of milky hue, Before me from a plantain flew, And, light along the water's brim, I steered my gentle bark by him; For fancy told me, Love had sent This gentle bird with kind intent To lead my steps, where I should meet-- I knew not what, but something sweet.
And--bless the little pilot dove! He had indeed been sent by Love, To guide me to a scene so dear As fate allows but seldom here; One of those rare and brilliant hours. That, like the aloe's lingering flowers, May blossom to the eye of man But once in all his weary span.