There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ;

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late."

The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"

And the lily whispers,

"

I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tennyson.

LXXXII.

LOVE'S GOOD-NIGHT.

GOOD-NIGHT? Ah, no! the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still,—

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood,
Then it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

LXXXIII.

LOVE'S DISSEMBLING.

THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay-
When Cloe noted her desire,

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,

But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,

I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned:

I sung, and gazed; I played, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around

Remarked how ill we all dissembled.

Matthew Prior.

LXXXIV.

LOVE'S APRIL DAY.

THE lovely Delia smiles again ;

That killing frown has left her brow;

Can she forgive my jealous pain,

And give me back my angry vow?

Love is an April's doubtful day:
Awhile we see the tempest lower;
Anon the radiant heaven survey,
And quite forget the flitting shower.

F

The flowers that hung their languid head
Are burnished by the transient rains;
The vines their wonted tendrils spread,
And double verdure gilds the plains.

The sprightly birds, that drooped no less
Beneath the power of rain and wind,
In every raptured note express

The joy I feel when thou art kind.

William Shenstone.

LXXXV.

LOVE'S EXCUSE.

BLAME me not, love, that I do wear

An ever-changing hue;

You are my sunshine, and I bear
My lights and shades from you.

Do not your lover, love, upbraid
To show an hasty mind;

The heaven itself is not more staid,
So you continue kind.

I am your instrument, dear love;

And if the tone be jarred,

Those springs which should in concord move

Are touched amiss and marred.

William Caldwell Roscoe.

LXXXVI.

LOVE'S SUNSHINE AFTER STORM.

LET'S contend no more, Love,

Strive nor weep:

All be as before, Love,

- Only sleep!

What so wild as words are?

I and thou

In debate, as birds are,

Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking

While we speak!

Hush and hide the talking,

Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is,

False to thee?

Where the serpent's tooth is,

Shun the tree

Where the apple reddens

Never pry

Lest we lose our Edens,

Eve and I.

Be a god and hold me

With a charm!

Be a man and fold me

With thine arm !

Teach me, only teach, Love!

As I ought

I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought

Meet, if thou require it,

Both demands,

Laying flesh and spirit

In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow,

Not to-night;

I must bury sorrow

Out of sight:

- Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)

And so fall asleep, Love,

Loved by thee.

Robert Browning.

LXXXVII.

LOVE'S RECONCILEMENT.

COME, let us now resolve at last
To live and love in quiet;
We'll tie the knot so very fast,
That time shall ne'er untie it.

The truest joys they seldom prove
Who free from quarrels live;
'Tis the most tender part of love
Each other to forgive.

When least I seemed concerned, I took

No pleasure, nor no rest;

And when I feigned an angry look,

Alas! I loved you best.

Own but the same to me, you'll find

How blest will be our fate;

Oh, to be happy, to be kind,

Sure never is too late!

John, Duke of Buckingham.

LXXXVIII.

LOVE'S EXCHANGE.

O, LIPS that mine have grown into,
Like April's kissing May;

O, fervent eyelids, letting through
Those eyes the greenest of things blue,
The bluest of things grey;