HOW soft are the day dreams, how sweet are the slumbers
Of him who reclines on the lap of the muse,
The pow'rs of persuasion await on his numbers,
And thrill thro' the heart of the woman he woos.

To his eye lie disclos'd all the sweets of creation,
To him all the beauties of nature are known;
From the lily's pale hue to the gaudy carnation,
He marks all their tints, and he makes them his own.

Then mingling their colours at fancy's direction,
A form all angelic his pencil designs;
In the morn's orient crimson he dips for complexion;
For lustre he dives in the depth of the mines.

From thee, lovely rose, as thy charms are disclosing,
He snatches the buds that just ope to the view,
On her bosom ingrafts them, where sweetly reposing,
The eye is delighted by contrast of hue.

Erect as a cedar, yet such in proportion
As painters have pencil'd the mother of Love;
The stag when he bounds not so graceful in motion,
In sweetness of aspect all painting above.

Such she for whose picture he rifles all nature,
Transferring each charm to the form he pourtrays;
Thus perfect in figure, in air, and in feature,
He calls on mankind for their tribute of praise.

To phantoms unreal he claims no devotion,
For true is the portrait, and lovely the fair,
As ever inspir'd the fond heart with emotion,
Or wip'd from the forehead the damp of despair.

Forgive then, sweet ****, the innocent fiction,
That drew as from fancy the charms that are thine;
For sketching those charms I but sooth the affliction
Which harrows in absence this bosom of mine.