Page:Translations (1834).djvu/65

Rh My lady’s hand my locks has set With varied pinnacles of gold— A proud immortal coronet, Glean’d from the peacock’s sunny fold! To join those plumes with magic band, Were work befitting monarch’s hand— Those gems of air—those floating flow’rs— Those lamps to light my bardic hours— Those tiny palaces o’erspread With eyes—as of the mighty dead! Ne’er shall the poet’s forehead lose The mirror of their living hues. All things of loveliness have met, In this my Morvyth’s coronet!