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In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay,
Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade,
Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian Maid
Steals from her loitering chariot, to survey
The slumbering charms, that all her soul betray.
Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid,
Starts;--and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd,
Slides in his half-clos'd hand;--and speeds away.--
"Ye eyes, ye human stars!--if, thus conceal'd
By Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart,
Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'd
Your rays had shone!"--Bright Nymph, thy strains impart
Hopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove,
Seeking thro' Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.


He found her not;--yet much the POET found,
To swell Imagination's golden store,
On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore,
Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound,
Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round
Her ruin'd towers and temples;--classic lore
Breathing sublimer spirit from the power
Of local consciousness.--Thrice happy wound,
Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair
"Hung over them enamour'd," the desire
Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there,
Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre,
Might haply fan the emulative flame,
That rose o'er DANTE's song, and rival'd MARO's fame.