In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay,
Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade,
Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian Maid
Steals from her loitering chariot, to survey
The slumbering charms, that all her soul betray.
Then, as coy fears th’ admiring gaze upbraid,
Starts;— and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd,
Slides in his half-clos'd hand;— and speeds away.—
“Ye eyes, ye human stars!— if, thus conceal'd
By Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart,
Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'd
Your rays had shone!”— Bright Nymph, thy strains impart
Hopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove,
Seeking thro’ Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.