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THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS TO A LAMP WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh! Love the lamp' (my mistress said)
Last Line: And where's your boast of apathy!
Alternate Author Name(s): Little, Thomas
Subject(s): Aristippus (435-366 B.c.); Lamps; Philosophy & Philosophers


"OH! love the Lamp" (my mistress said)
"The faithful Lamp that, many a night,
Beside thy Lais' lonely bed
Has kept its little watch of light!

"Full often has it seen her weep,
And fix her eye upon its flame,
Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep,
Repeating her beloved's name!

"Oft has it known her cheek to burn
With recollections, fondly free,
And seen her turn, impassion'd turn,
To kiss the pillow, love! for thee,
And, in a murmur, wish thee there,
That kiss to feel, that thought to share!

"Then love the Lamp -- 'twill often lead
Thy step through learning's sacred way;
And, lighted by its happy ray,
Whene'er those darling eyes shall read
Of things sublime, of Nature's birth,
Of all that's bright in heaven or earth,
Oh! think that she, by whom 'twas given,
Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"

Yes -- dearest Lamp! by every charm
On which thy midnight beam has hung;
The neck reclined, the graceful arm
Across the brow of ivory flung;

The heaving bosom, partly hid,
The sever'd lip's delicious sighs,
The fringe, that from the snowy lid
Along the cheek of roses lies:

By these, by all that bloom untold,
And long as all shall charm my heart,
I'll love my little Lamp of gold,
My Lamp and I shall never part!

And often, as she smiling said,
In fancy's hour, thy gentle rays
Shall guide my visionary tread
Through poesy's enchanting maze!

Thy flame shall light the page refined,
Where still we catch the Chian's breath,
Where still the bard, though cold in death,
Has left his burning soul behind!
Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,
O man of Ascra's dreary glades!
To whom the nightly warbling Nine
A wand of inspiration gave,
Pluck'd from the greenest tree that shades
The crystal of Castalia's wave.
Then, turning to a purer lore,
We'll cull the sages' heavenly store,
From Science steal her golden clue,
And every mystic path pursue,
Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes
Through labyrinths of wonder flies!

'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know
The passing world's precarious flight,
Where all, that meets the morning glow,
Is changed before the fall of night!

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,
"Swift, swift the tide of being runs,
And Time, who bids thy flame expire,
Will also quench yon heaven of suns!"

Oh! then if earth's united power
Can never chain one feathery hour;
If every print we leave to-day
To-morrow's wave shall steal away;
Who pauses, to inquire of Heaven
Why were the fleeting treasures given,
The sunny days, the shady nights,
And all their brief but dear delights,
Which Heaven has made for man to use,
And man should think it guilt to lose?
Who, that has cull'd a weeping rose,
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Unmindful of the blushing ray,
In which it shines its soul away;
Unmindful of the scented sigh,
On which it dies and loves to die?

Pleasure! thou only good on earth!
Our little hour resign'd to thee --
Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth,
The sage's immortality!

Then far be all the wisdom hence,
And all the lore, whose tame control
Would wither joy with chill delays!
Alas! the fertile fount of sense
At which the young, the panting soul
Drinks life and love, too soon decays!

Sweet Lamp! thou wert not form'd to shed
Thy splendour on a lifeless page --
Whate'er my blushing Lais said
Of thoughtful lore and studies sage,
'Twas mockery all -- her glance of joy
Told me thy dearest, best employ!

And, soon as night shall close the eye
Of heaven's young wanderer in the west;
When seers are gazing on the sky,
To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,
Glide to the pillow of my love.

Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear!
Nor let her dream of bliss so near;
Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel
My sighs of fire in murmurs steal,
And I shall lift the locks, that flow
Unbraided o'er her lids of snow,
And softly kiss those sealed eyes,
And wake her into sweet surprise!

Or, if she dream, oh! let her dream
Of those delights we both have known
And felt so truly, that they seem
Form'd to be felt by us alone!
And I shall mark her kindling cheek,
Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak
The murmur'd sounds so dear to love!
Oh! I shall gaze, till e'en the sigh
That wafts her very soul be nigh,
And when the nymph is all but blest,
Sink in her arms and share the rest!
Sweet Lais! what an age of bliss
In that one moment waits for me!
O sages! -- think on joy like this,
And where's your boast of apathy!





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