Thou _arch_ magician! [emphasise the arch!
I would not--for an office--have it said
That I apostrophized another]--march
Where'er I will, thy strategy has spread
For me, alas! such ambuscades and toils,
I fear thou seek'st to add me to thy "spoils."
'Tis, by my holidame! no more a jest
To cope with thee, than him, whose subtle schemes
Cheat an enlightened people's greatest, best--
While thou art tickling in their downy dreams,
Some half score maidens, putting them in mind
To play the devil--just as they're inclined.
* * * * *
With woman's eyes thou hast my heart assailed,
Yet I withstood them. Lips and teeth in vain
Coral and pearls outshone--form, features failed
To bind me captive in thy treacherous chain;
I know not why, but fancy some bright shield
Hath saved me scathless from the well fought field!
* * * * *
Perhaps it was her eyes--their flashing light
Must have reminded me of quenchless fire:
It may have been her teeth--their dazzling white
Might hint Tartaric snows than Andes higher,
Where shriek the damned from every frozen clime,
Warning poor tempted souls to flee from crime.[1]
Perhaps her lips foretokened coals as red--
Perhaps her faultlessness of form might tell
Of ruined Arch-angelic beauties, led
By Love or Pride's seduction, down to hell--
But how 'twas possible I can't divine,
To look upon her foot and think of thine!
[Footnote 1: A _hot_ region has no terrors for the Laplanders. None
but a very _cold_ place of punishment is adapted to their
imagination.]
For the Southern Literary Messenger.