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 enterprise：

    But ah！ I am no knight¹ whose foeman dies；

    No cuirass glistens² on my bosom's swell³；

    I am no happy shepherd of the dell

    Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.

    Yet must I doat upon thee，-call thee sweet，

    Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses

    When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication⁴.

    Ah！ I will taste that dew， for me 'tis meet，

    And when the moon her pallid⁵ face discloses.

    I'll gather some by spells， and incantation.