A L'Oreiller De Ma Maitresse Poem by Charlotte Dacre

SWEET pillow! on whose down the loveliest fair
That e'er in slumber clos'd her radiant eyes,
Reclines, her wasted spirits to repair,
That, hence recruited, lovelier she may rise:
Oh! say, as morn dissolves the airy dream,
What lover is the fair one's waking theme?

Yes, sweetest pillow, from the wings of Love
Was dropt thy down, that woos her to repose,
Or else the plumage of his mother's dove
Was lent, thy envied softness to compose:
Accept, sweet pillow, a fond lover's kiss,
E'en while I breathe a sigh to share thy bliss.

What beauties from my ardent gaze conceal'd,
What graces to thee carelessly expos'd,
What charms to thee, and thee alone reveal'd,
Disrobing **** matchless form disclos'd:
What time the sun had sunk beneath the main,
To her the hour of rest, to me of pain.

Ah! paint that form of perfect symmetry,
In nature's mould of elegance design'd,
The blush that mantles, and the sparkling eye,
Whose piercing radiance speaks th' enlighten'd mind.
Ah! paint that bosom swelling to the sight,
Where the eye wanders with disturb'd delight.

Yet hold; can words those glowing charms express?
The Muse indignant leaves th' imperfect strain;
Painting its feeble efforts must confess,
E'en fancy strives to sketch, but strives in vain:
Ah! pillow, lovelier is the weight you bear;
Than painter's tint, than poet's dream, more fair.

Say then, to thee her secret thoughts are known,
When night descends, ere sleep assails her eyes,
What lover's name escapes in falt'ring tone?
Why heaves her breast? why do her blushes rise?
Oh! deign th' envied secret to resign;
Say that she names, and that the name is mine .

So may'st thou still her faultless form survey,
When sleep her beamy orbs shall set in night,
Soon to awake, to emulate the day,
And fill the world with wonder and delight;
So may her bosom on thy down recline,
Nor be its weight remov'd, but when it leans on mine.