Offspring of her to whom, to-day, While from thy lovely self away, A thousand hearts their homage pay, Besides the throngs whom friendship binds to please, And some whom love presents thee on their knees! A mandate which I cannot thrust aside Between you both impels me to divide Some of the incense which the dews distil Upon the roses of a sacred hill, And which, by secret of my trade, Is sweet and most delicious made. To you, I say, ... but all to say Would task me far beyond my day; I need judiciously to choose; Thus husbanding my voice and muse, Whose strength and leisure soon would fail. I'll only praise your tender heart, and hale, Exalted feelings, wit, and grace, In which there's none can claim a higher place, Excepting her whose praise is your entail. Let not too many thorns forbid to touch These roses--I may call them such-- If Love should ever say as much. By him it will be better said, indeed; And they who his advices will not heed, Scourge fearfully will he, As you shall shortly see. A blooming miracle of yore Despised his godship's sovereign power; They call'd her name Alcimadure. A haughty creature, fierce and wild, She sported, Nature's tameless child. Rough paths her wayward feet would lead To darkest glens of mossy trees; Or she would dance on daisied mead, With nought of law but her caprice. A fairer could not be, Nor crueller, than she. Still charming in her sternest mien,-- E'en when her haughty look debarr'd,-- What had she been to lover in The fortress of her kind regard! Daphnis, a high-born shepherd swain, Had loved this maiden to his bane. Not one regardful look or smile, Nor e'en a gracious word, the while, Relieved the fierceness of his pain. O'erwearied with a suit so vain, His hope was but to die; No power had he to fly. He sought, impell'd by dark despair, The portals of the cruel fair. Alas! the winds his only listeners were! The mistress gave no entrance there-- No entrance to the palace where, Ingrate, against her natal day, She join'd the treasures sweet and gay In garden or in wild-wood grown, To blooming beauty all her own. 'I hoped,' he cried, 'Before your eyes I should have died; But, ah! too deeply I have won your hate; Nor should it be surprising news To me, that you should now refuse To lighten thus my cruel fate. My sire, when I shall be no more, Is charged to lay your feet before The heritage your heart neglected. With this my pasturage shall be connected, My trusty dog, and all that he protected; And, of my goods which then remain, My mourning friends shall rear a fane.