His chains?-As golden cobwebs light

Their links?-Bright beauty's eyes

Whilst firmly are his fetters wrought,
And rivetted-with sighs.]

I've pilgrim'd where the burning sun
O'er distant Indus shines,

And told my beads of passion there,
At bright and living shrines.

At bright and living shrines I've knelt,
Yea, knelt at beauty's feet,

Nor ever bent the knee before

More radiant idols yet.

In fair Italia's mellow clime

The clime of soft desire,

Like to its own impassion'd mount,*

I've burn'd with hidden fire,

* Mount Vesuvius.

And as adown its vine-clad side

The boiling torrents roll—

So, fed with secret flames, has burst

The lava of my soul.

I've drank at many a honied fount

In Lusitanian grove,

And sweetly slak'd my raging thirst
With luscious draughts of love.
In Cintra's wild and silent shades,
Full many a moon-lit night,
From red and roscid lips I've quaff'd
The kiss of deep delight.

There is a lovely myrtle shore,

Bathed by the Tyrrhene wave,

Where, at the pensive set of sun,

I've sighed as pleasure's slave.

Yes! in Iberia's olive-land,

Her fondest ones I've met,

And felt the flash that lightens from Their eyes of molten jet.

Let other wanderers falsely tell

(Who've fear'd the bliss to prove)

That Paynim maid was never won
By aught save Moslem love.

For O, while memory lives, I'll dream
At least, of one dark flower,

That bloom'd for me, and me alone,

Within its Moorish bower.

It was the young Hamāma,* ne'er,
O ne'er has Afric's sun,

In his hot wooings, kiss'd the cheek
Of such a dove-eyed one;
And she was mine-

In every soft and sunny clime
Where beauty builds her nest.

And fervent man delights to make
His heaven-sweet woman's breast-

I've dwelt awhile, and banquetted

On lover's dainty fare,

With God's supremest loveliness,

The bless'd repast to share.

* The Moorish, or more correctly speaking, the Arabic for dove.

O! errant have my footsteps been

To many stranger-shores,

Where woman keenly, wildly, loves,

And man, in turn, adores.

-Whose temples are the silent groves,

-Where Cupid's the high priest,

And Venus is the deity

That's worshipped at the feast.

But though I've barter'd pleasant sighs
With those who've toy'd the while
In far-off lands-my heart still pined
For its own ocean-isle ;

As, sooth to tell, a secret charm

Wove this around my mind"The fairest of all earthly fair In Albion thou wilt find."

And such, (O heaven! I bless the boon,)
Such was I doom'd to prove,
As now, in Vecta's* Undercliff

I view the Rose of Love;
Or roselet, 'twere more fit to say,
Since scarcely it has grown

The Ancient name for the Isle of Wight.

Into a blushing bud, whose sweets
As yet, are not full-blown.

And need I name this modest flower? No, no, true-love, 'tis said,

Keeps its own secret, whilst the fire

By silence best is fed.

And why need I to others tell

The "Rose of Love's" sweet name,

Since on my own adoring heart

'Tis grav'd in words of flame?

O! time may fly, and years may come
With age and sorrow rife,

And every mortal ill be mine
That crowds the page of life;
But whilst all other joys may fade,
This, this, my boast shall prove,
I had the bliss, to win the vows
Of Niton's Rose of Love.