Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs   
  Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell   
  Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well   
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:   
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;           
  No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;   
  I am no happy shepherd of the dell   
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes.   
Yet must I doat upon thee,—call thee sweet,   
  Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses    
    When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.   
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet,   
  And when the moon her pallid face discloses,   
    I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.