To * * * * * *

 Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs   Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,   Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprize: But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;   No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;   I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes; Yet must I dote upon thee,--call thee sweet.   Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses     When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,   And when the moon her pallid face discloses,     I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.