The New Hampshire Gazette

THE KISS,
ATTEMPTED FROM THE ITALIAN

Give me, sweet maid, one gentle kiss,
To my fond heart 'twill nectar prove—
Not tamely thus, devoid of bliss,-
No this is not the kiss of love!
So gentle sisters calm embrace,
So kiss the placid waves the shore,
So zephyrs kiss the floweret's face,
With baby fondness-nothing more.
No; this is not the kiss that wakes
The boiling blood in every vein,
That every nerve with rapture shakes,
Till ecstacy's alive to pain.
Not so did Pysche's fervid lip
Press on the glowing cheek of love,
Nor this the way that roses sip
The dews descending from above;
Not so the quivering ivy grasps,
With clinging arms, the oak her spouse,
Whose form with bridal warmth she clasps,
Just such as bashfulness allows!
Go, lovely Ice! go, rigid maid!
You know not Love, nor feel his fires,
When all the senses are betrayed,
In new-born, undefined desires!
Stay—stay—forgive, that burning kiss,
That trembling pressure speaks the whole,
Thou didst but feign— and this, and this,
Is nectar to my thirsty soul!
Unheeded now the lightnings flash
Unfelt the whirlwind raging by.
Unheard the thunder's loudest crash,
Life knows but thou—and ecstacy

From the London New Monthly Magazine.