ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Thomas Moore, "To Mrs. Henry Tighe on reading her Psyche" 1805 ca.; Poetical Works, ed. Godley (1929) 69-70.
1795: Anna Seward
1805: Lady Bedingfield
1805 ca.: Thomas Moore
1810: Joseph Haslewood
1811: Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe
1811: W. P.
1811: Anna Maria Porter
1811: Bp. Reginald Heber
1811: Rev. Francis Hodgson
1812: Sir James Mackintosh
1812: Bernard Barton
1812: Robert Pearse Gillies
1812: Mary Leadbeater
1815: William Henry Ireland
1815: P. T.
1819: John Keats
1825: John Wilson
1825: C. M.
1826: Richard Ryan
1827: Alexander Dyce
1827: Felicia Hemans
1828: Leigh Hunt
1831: Felicia Hemans
1847: Leigh Hunt
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1854: Robert Shelton Mackenzie
1855: Sarah Josepha Hale
1862: Thomas Arnold
1878: Alfred Webb
1882: Margaret Oliphant
1882: Epes Sargent
1794: Samuel Whyte
1805 ca.: Mary Tighe
1813: Samuel Rogers
1814: Edward Thurlow
1816: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1819: Rev. Lionel Thomas Berguer
1828: Leigh Hunt
1830: Edward Thurlow
1839: David Lester Richardson
Tell me the witching tale again,
For never has my heart or ear
Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,
So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.
Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame,
When the high heaven itself was thine;
When piety confess'd the flame,
And even thy errors were divine;
Did ever Muse's hand, so fair,
A glory round thy temples spread?
Did ever lip's ambrosial air
Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed?
One maid there was, who round her lyre
The mystic myrtle wildly wreath'd;—
But all her sighs were sighs of fire,
The myrtle wither'd as she breath'd.
Oh! you, that love's celestial dream,
In all its purity, would know,
Let not the senses' ardent beam
Too strongly through the vision glow.
Love safest lies, conceal'd in night,
The night where heaven has bid him lie;
Oh! shed not there unhallow'd light,
Or, Psyche knows, the boy will fly.
Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour,
Through many a wild and magic waste,
To the fair fount and blissful bower
Have I, in dreams, thy light foot trac'd!
Where'er thy joys are number'd now,
Beneath whatever shades of rest,
The Genius of the starry brow
Hath bound thee to thy Cupid's breast;
Whether above the horizon dim,
Along whose verge our spirits stray,—
Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim,
Half brighten'd by the upper ray,—
Thou dwellest in a world, all light,
Or, lingering here, dost love to be,
To other souls, the guardian bright
That Love was, through this gloom, to thee;
Still be the song to Psyche dear,
The song, whose gentle voice was given
To be, on earth, to mortal ear,
An echo of her own, in heaven.