ZARA, THE BATHER

 ("Sara, belle d'indolence.") 
 
 {XIX., August, 1828.} 


 In a swinging hammock lying, 
 Lightly flying, 
 Zara, lovely indolent, 
 O'er a fountain's crystal wave 
 There to lave 
 Her young beauty—see her bent. 
 
 As she leans, so sweet and soft, 
 Flitting oft, 
 O'er the mirror to and fro, 
 Seems that airy floating bat, 
 Like a feather 
 From some sea-gull's wing of snow. 
 
 Every time the frail boat laden 
 With the maiden 
 Skims the water in its flight, 
 Starting from its trembling sheen, 
 Swift are seen 
 A white foot and neck so white. 
 
 As that lithe foot's timid tips 
 Quick she dips, 
 Passing, in the rippling pool, 
 (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!) 
 Frolic, she 
 Laughs to feel the pleasant cool. 
 
 Here displayed, but half concealed— 
 Half revealed, 
 Each bright charm shall you behold, 
 In her innocence emerging, 
 As a-verging 
 On the wave her hands grow cold. 
 
 For no star howe'er divine 
 Has the shine 
 Of a maid's pure loveliness, 
 Frightened if a leaf but quivers 
 As she shivers, 
 Veiled with naught but dripping trees. 
 
 By the happy breezes fanned 
 See her stand,— 
 Blushing like a living rose, 
 On her bosom swelling high 
 If a fly 
 Dare to seek a sweet repose. 
 
 In those eyes which maiden pride 
 Fain would hide, 
 Mark how passion's lightnings sleep! 
 And their glance is brighter far 
 Than the star 
 Brightest in heaven's bluest deep. 
 
 O'er her limbs the glittering current 
 In soft torrent 
 Rains adown the gentle girl, 
 As if, drop by drop, should fall, 
 One and all 
 From her necklace every pearl. 
 
 Lengthening still the reckless pleasure 
 At her leisure, 
 Care-free Zara ever slow 
 As the hammock floats and swings 
 Smiles and sings, 
 To herself, so sweet and low. 
 
 "Oh, were I a capitana, 
 Or sultana, 
 Amber should be always mixt 
 In my bath of jewelled stone, 
 Near my throne, 
 Griffins twain of gold betwixt. 
 
 "Then my hammock should be silk, 
 White as milk; 
 And, more soft than down of dove, 
 Velvet cushions where I sit 
 Should emit 
 Perfumes that inspire love. 
 
 "Then should I, no danger near, 
 Free from fear, 
 Revel in my garden's stream; 
 Nor amid the shadows deep 
 Dread the peep, 
 Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam. 
 
 "He who thus would play the spy, 
 On the die 
 For such sight his head must throw; 
 In his blood the sabre naked 
 Would be slakèd, 
 Of my slaves of ebon brow. 
 
 "Then my rich robes trailing show 
 As I go, 
 None to chide should be so bold; 
 And upon my sandals fine 
 How should shine 
 Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!" 
 
 Fancying herself a queen, 
 All unseen, 
 Thus vibrating in delight; 
 In her indolent coquetting 
 Quite forgetting 
 How the hours wing their flight. 
 
 As she lists the showery tinkling 
 Of the sprinkling 
 By her wanton curvets made; 
 Never pauses she to think 
 Of the brink 
 Where her wrapper white is laid. 
 
 To the harvest-fields the while, 
 In long file, 
 Speed her sisters' lively band, 
 Like a flock of birds in flight 
 Streaming light, 
 Dancing onward hand in hand. 
 
 And they're singing, every one, 
 As they run 
 This the burden of their lay: 
 "Fie upon such idleness! 
 Not to dress 
 Earlier on harvest-day!" 
 
 JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. 


 

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