A pleasure incomplete: For with the charm Of sweetest eloquence, and wit refined, By pleasing raillery and lively tale, The gallant Oscar so beguiled the hour, That leaden Apathy itself would ne'er With palpitating heart, and gen'rous swell, Erina showed the fondly nourished flame That glowed when Oscar spoke; whilst he, repos'd Along the flow'ry margin of the rill, Half-leaning on the bosom of the maid, Would drink the rapture of her syren gaze, And hang upon her with a fondling smile, The long hid sigh, which, in a language plain, Thrice happy pair! your pure unsullied joys, Recal to mind that richly luscious hour, When, first, in paradise young Adam prest The balmy lips of Eve, and raptured hung Upon those swelling charms, that asked for more Than admiration, or the frigid gaze Of mere Platonick love. Sweet hour was this! For hell-born vice, with serpent crest, had yet And love and innocence, throughout the scene, Maintained unbroken sway. Sweet hour was this! By far the happiest ever spent on earth! Enjoyment, pure and keen as this, would pay An age of bye-gone toil, and recompence A lifetime of solicitude and care. Soon as appeared the shadowy form of eve, And died along the west the golden day, 1 What time resounds the peasant's voice, no more, Upon the furrowed hill, and nought of noise, The watch-dog, from the distant hamlet, howls, When weary hinds to quietude retire, And labour seeks repose, Erina loved Sweet Solitude within her own retreats. Oh! what a luxury ineffable, The feeling mind, by lib'ral science stor❜d, Afford a rich repast to feed the soul, And yield a banquet to excursive thought! Compared with these, what are the charms of sense, » The blandishments of wealth, the gaudy glare Of pageantry, the smile of lawless joy, The pride, the noise, the nonsense of the world? Nor was Erina wanting in the sweets Of mental excellence, without the gift Or exercise of which, external charms Will lose the power to please, and woman's claim, Or bind the heart in love's undying chain, Were void, and but a perishable name. To cultivate the soul, and give her mind To slumber in an early tomb) thy fond, A pupil, or a child unapt, or one on whom By her were prized fair Science, and whate'er By her were plucked the richest flowers of taste, Luxuriant grows, the magic power of song, The fascination of the muse, the strain Of minstrelsy, the music of the lyre. Time was, my country, when thy blooming maids, Like sweet Erina, near some sacred stream, Where fairy elfins lead their light-heeled dance; Or underneath the venerable oak, Would wake the soul of music from the lyre, And teach even Echo to repeat the tones |