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February, 2000

The Bower of Bliss

From The Merry Muses of Caledonia

Poem of the Month for February, 2000

Contributed by Shevie Kader

An example of the Merry Muses of Caldeonia that is not quite as bad as most. Still the idea is there for all to see: Written not for publication but for the amusement of his friends and himself. [And, a fitting contribution for the month that contains Valentine's Day! -- webmaster]

The Bower of Bliss

Robert Burns

Tune -- Logan Water

WHILST others to thy bosom rise,
And paint the glories of thine eyes,
Or bid thy lips and cheeks disclose,
The unfading bloom of Eden's rose,
Less obvious charms my song inspire,
Which fell, not fear we most admire,
Less obvious charms, not less divine,
I sing that lovely bower of thine.

Rich gem! worth India's wealth alone,
How much pursued how little known;
Tho' rough its face, tho' dim its hue,
It soils the lustre of Peru.
The vet'ran such a prize to gain,
Might all the toils of war sustain:
The devotee forsake his shrine,
To venerate that bower of thine.

When the stung heart feels keen desire,
And through each vein pours liquid fire:
When with flush'd cheeks and burning eyes,
Thy lover to thy bosom flies;
Believe, dear maid, believe my vow,
By Venus' self, I swear,'tis true!
More bright the higher beauties shine,
Illum'd by that strange bower of thine,

What thought sublime, what lofty strain?
Its wond'rous virtues can explain?
No place howe'er remote, can be
From its intense attraction free:
Tho' more elastic far than steel,
It's force ten thousand needles feel;
Pleas'd their high temper to resign,
In that magnetic bower of thine.

Irriguous vale, embrown'd with shades,
Which no intrinsic storm pervades!
Soft clime, where native summer glows
And nectar's living current flows!
Not Tempe's vale, renown'd of yore,
Of charms could boast such endless store
More than Elysian sweets combine,
To grace that smiling bower of thine.

O may no rash invader Stain,
Love's warm, sequestered virgin fane!
For me alone let gentle fate,
Preserve the dear august retreat!
Along its banks when shall I stray?
Its beauteous landscape when survey?
How long in fruitless anguish pine,
Nor view unvail'd that bower of thine.

O! let my tender, trembling hand,
The awful gate of life expand!
With all its wonders feast my sight;
Dear prelude to immense delight!
Till plung'd in liquid joy profound,
The dark unfathom'd deep I sound;
All panting on thy breast recline,
And murmuring bliss that bower of thine.

--Shevie Kader, January 2000

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