Sonnet LXXIV

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.