The Attic Master,[5] in Aspasia's eyes,
Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties;
While fair Theano,[6] innocently fair,
Wreathed playfully her Samian's flowing hair,
Whose soul now fixt, its transmigrations past,
Found in those arms a resting-place, at last;
And smiling owned, whate'er his dreamy thought
In mystic numbers long had vainly sought,
The One that's formed of Two whom love hath bound,
Is the best number gods or men e'er found.
But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrilled,
When near a fount, which through the valley rilled,
My fancy's eye beheld a form recline,
Of lunar race, but so resembling thine
That, oh! 'twas but fidelity in me,
To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee.
No aid of words the unbodied soul requires,
To waft a wish or embassy desires;
But by a power, to spirits only given,
A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven,
Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies,
From soul to soul the glanced idea flies.
Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet!
Like him, the river-god,[7]whose waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids,
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have decked his current, as an offering meet
To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.
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