ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip hath left

Shall never part from mine,

Till happier nours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams,
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast

Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

A WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. WITH thee conversing I forget all time; Alt seasons and their change, all please alike; Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild; then silent night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers; Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Or glittering starlight,-without thee is sweet. MILTON

Must bear the love it can not show,

And silent ache for thee.

BYRON.

JAMAIS nous ne verrions briller un jour serein,
Toujours par la douleur l'âme seroit flétrie,
S. l'amour ne venoit consoler notre vie,
Et semer quelques fleurs sur ce triste chemin.

THE REPROACH.

WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant
(As would my deeds have been) with hourly care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For naught but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine;

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
WORDSWORTH.

THE TRANCE OF LOVE.

LOVE in a drowsy mood one day

Reclined with all his nymphs around him, His feathered darts neglected lay,

And faded were the flowers that crowned him. Young Hope, with eye of light, in vain

Led smiling Beauty to implore him, While Genius poured his sweetest strain, And Pleasure shook his roses o'er him.

At length a stranger sought the grove,
And fiery Vengeance seemed to guide him,
He rudely tore the wreaths of Love,
And broke the darts that lay beside him.
The little god now wakeful grew,

And, angry at the bold endeavor,
He rose, and wove his wreaths anew,
And strung his bow more firm than ever.

When, lo! the invader cried, "Farewell!
My skill, bright nymphs, this lesson teaches-
While Love is sprightly bind him well
With smiles, and songs, and honeyed speeches;
But should dull languor seize the god,
Recall me on my friendly mission;
For know when Love begins to nod,
His surest spur is opposition."

From the Italian.

LOVE'S ARTIFICE.

I SAID it was a wilful, wayward thing,

And so it is, fantastic and perverse!

Which makes its sport of persons and of seasons,
Takes its own way, no matter right or wrong.

It is the bee that finds the honey out,

Where least you dream 'twould seek the nectarous store. And 'tis an errant masquer-this same love

That most outlandish, freakish faces wears

To hide his own! Looks a proud Spaniard now;

Now a grave Turk; hot Ethiopian next;

And then phlegmatic Englishman; and then

Gay Frenchman; by-and-by Italian, at

All things a song; and in another skip,

Gruff Dutchman; still is Love behind the masque!
It is a hypocrite! looks every way

But that where lie its thoughts! will openly
Frown at the thing it smiles in secret on;
Shows most like hate, e'en when it most is love;
Would fain convince you it is very rock
When it is water! ice when it is fire!
Is oft its own dupe, like a thorough cheat;
Persuades itself 'tis not the thing it is;
Holds up its head, purses its brows, and looks
Askant, with scornful lip, hugging itself
That it is high disdain-till suddenly
It falls on its knees, making most piteous suit
With hail of tears and hurricane of sighs,
Calling on heaven and earth for witnesses
That it is love, true love-nothing but love!
SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

SONNET.

OH! were I loved as I desire to be,
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
And range of evil between death and birth,
That I should fear-if I were loved by thee?
All the inner, all the outer world of pain
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine;
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main

Fresh water springs come up through bitter brine.
'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee,
To wait for death-mute-careless of all ills,
Apart upon a mountain, through the surge
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge
Below us, as far on as eye could see.

A. TENNYSON.

LOVE is a thing of frail and delicate growth;
Soon checked, soon fostered; feeble and yet strong;
It will endure much, suffer long, and bear
What would weigh down an angel's wing to earth,
And yet mount heavenward; but not the less
It dieth of a word, a look, a thought;
And when it dies, it dies without a sign
To tell how fair it was in happier hours:
It leaves behind reproaches and regrets,
And bitterness within affection's well.
For which there is no healing.

THE FAITH OF LOVE.

THOU hast watched beside the bed of death,

O fearless human love!

Thy lip received the last faint breath,

Ere the spirit fled above.

Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier,

In a low and farewell tone,

Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear. -O Love! thy task is done.

Then turn thee from each pleasant spot,

Where thou wert wont to rove;
For there the friend of thy soul is not,
Nor the joy of thy youth, O Love!

Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there,
Her dreams in the grove she weaves,
With echoes filling the summer air,
With sighs the trembling leaves.
Then turn thee to the world again,

From these dim haunted bowers,

And shut thine ear to the wild sweet strain
"That tells of vanished hours.

And wear not on thine aching heart
The image of the dead,

For the tie is rent that gave thee part
In the gladness its beauty shed:

And gaze on the pictured smile no more
That thus can life outlast,
All between parted souls is o'er;

-Love! Love! forget the past!
"Voice of vain boding! away, be still!
Strive not against the faith
That yet my bosom with light can fill,

Unquenched and undimmed by death: "From the pictured smile I will not turn, Though sadly now it shine;

Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn
For the step once linked with mine:
"Nor shut mine ear to the song of old,
Though its notes the pang renew,
-Such memories deep in my heart I hold,
To keep it pure and true.

"By the holy instinct of my heart,
By the hope that bears me on,

I have still my own undying part

In the deep affection gone.

"By the presence that about me seems
Through night and day to dwell,

Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams!
-I have breathed no last farewell!"

THE BETROTHED.

HEMANS.

BETROTHED to one long worshipped and enshrined

In the veiled altars of that vestal mind,
Dreaming of years unwrecked and fate defied,
With one dear treasure ever by her side-
Pure-gentle-tender as the evening air,

ht above

When something holy blends with beauty there-
While vague and voiceless, through the
Moves the impassioned spirit of deep love,
The noble maiden sat! and in her ear

Came those low tones which inaideas deen most dear,
And o'er her young cheeks softest beauty stole
And went, the blushes speeding from the soul;
And oft from earth all guilelessly she raised
The eye e'en Love had ne'er too wildly praised;
The eye which wooed you like a star to gaze,

And dream that worlds lay couched beneath its rays;
And as you gazed, your softening spirit drew,
As from some holy fount, a virtue from its hue.
Sad scenes had tempered with a pensive grace
The maiden lustre of that faultless face,
Had hung a sweet and dreamlike spell upon
The gliding music of her silver tone;

And shaded the soft soul which loved to lie
In the deep pathos of that volumed eye.
Lone-thoughtful-tender-ever from her birth,
Her heart had been too gentle for light mirth.
Such are the thrones where love too surely reigns,
And turns his slightest chaplets into chains:
To them the world of others is as naught;

They shrink from earth and banquet on sweet thougnt,
And passion grows their life; alas ! for those
Whom rapture leaves too restless for repose,
Who bind on reeds their hopes-their joys-their all,
And idly chide the wild winds when they fall!

GIVE ME BUT THY LOVE.

GIVE me but thy love, and I
Envy none beneath the sky;
Pains and perils I defy

If thy presence cheer me.
Give me but thy love, my sweet!
Joy shall bless us when we meet;
Pleasures come, and cares retreat,

When thou smilest near me.

Happy 'twere, beloved one,
When the toils of day are done,
Ever with the set of sun

To thy fond arms retiring;-
There to feel, and there to know
A balm that baffles every wo,

J. BIRD.

While hearts that beat and eyes that glow
Are sweetest thoughts inspiring.

What are all the joys of earth?
What are revelry and mirth?
Vacant blessings-nothing worth
To hearts that ever knew love.
What is all the pomp of state,
What the grandeur of the great,
To the raptures that await

On the path of true love?

Should joy our days and years illume,
How sweet with thee to share such doom!
Nor, oh! less sweet, should sorrows come,
To cherish and caress thee;
Then, while I live, then till I die,
Oh! be thou only smiling by,
And, while I breathe, I'll fondly try
With all my heart to bless thee!

DELTA

MEET ME AT SUNSET.

MEET me at sunset, the hour we love best,

Ere day's last crimson blushes have died in the west,
When the shadowless ether is blue as thine eye,
And the breeze is as balmy and soft as thy sigh;
When giant-like forms lengthen fast o'er the ground
From the motionless mill and the linden trees round;
When the stillness below, the mild radiance above,
Softly sink on the heart and attune it to love.

Meet me at sunset-oh! meet me once more,

'Neath the wide-spreading thorn where you met me of yore, When our hearts were as calm as the broad summer sea That lay gleaming before us, bright, boundless, and free; And with hand clasped in hand, we sat trance-bound, and deemed

That life would be ever the thing it then seemed.
The tree we then planted, green record! lives on,
But the hopes that grew with it are faded and gone.
Meet me at sunset, beloved! as of old,—

When the boughs of the chestnut are waving in gold;
When the pure starry clematis bends with its bloom,
And the jasmine exhales a more witching perfume.
That sweet hour shall atone for the anguish of years,
And though fortune still frown, bid us smile through our
tears;

Through the storms of the future shall sooth and sustain;
Then meet me at sunset-oh! meet me again!

A. A. WATTS.

LOVE'S MINSTREL LUTE.

LOVE'S minstrel lute was once so dear
To every youthful breast,

Each maiden thronged its notes to hear,
Each swain its spells confessed!
Love rambled oft in hours of joy,
Through Pleasure's flowery way,
A gay light-hearted minstrel boy
Chanting his merry lay!

Love's minstrel lute has lost its tune,
Its sweetest lay is sung!

And passion's fervid breath hath flown,
That sighed those chords among!
A blighted flower, a broken toy,
Love's lute must now remain,
No pulse of hope, no thrill of joy,
Shall rouse its fire again!

For Reason came amid the throng
To hear the god one day

Like a chill blight the flowers among
And checked his merry lay!

His icy fingers round the boy
Threw Wealth's enslaving chain,
And Love's soft lute, that soul of joy,
Ne'er sang of bliss again!

MRS. C. B. WILSON.

WHAT spirit e'er so gentle shall be found. So softly reared in humble privacy! What form so fragile on wide earth's vast bound, Shrinking from every blast beneath the sky, That will not brave severest destiny, Bear, uncomplaining, want and cruel wrong, And look on danger with unblenching eye, If Love hath made that gentle spirit strong? Love, pure, approved by Heaven, leads that frail form along! LADY DACRE.

LOVE.

LOVE m the soul, not bold and confident,
But like Aurora, trembles into being;
And with faint flickering, and uncertain beams,
Gives notice to the awakening world within us
Of the full blazing orb, that soon shall rise,
And kindle all its passions. Then begin
Sorrow and joy,-unutterable joy,

And rapturous sorrow. Then the world is nothing;
Pleasure is nothing; suffering is nothing;
Ambition, riches, praise, power, all are nothing;
Love rules and reigns despotic and alone!
Then, oh the shape of magic loveliness
He conjures up before us. In her form
Is perfect symmetry. Her swan-like gait,
As she glides by us, like a lovely dream,
Seems not of earth. From her bright eye the soul
Looks out, and, like the topmost gem o' the heap,
Shows the mine's wealth within. Upon her face,
As on a lovely landscape, shade and sunlight,
Play as strong feeling sways; now her eye flashes
A beam of rapture; now lets drop a tear;
And now upon her brow, as when the rainbow
Rears its fair arch in heaven, Peace sits and gilds
The sweet drops as they fall. The soul of mind
Dwells in her voice, and her soft spiritual tones
Sink in the heart, soothing its cares away;
As Halcyon's brood upon the troubled wave
And charm it into calmness. When she weeps,
Her tears are like the waters upon which
Love's mother rose to Heaven. E'en her sighs,
Although they speak the troubles of her soul,
Breathe of its sweetness, as the wind that shakes
The cedar's boughs, becomes impregnated
With its celestial odors.

A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE. THERE is a mystic thread of life, So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none. There is a form on which these eyes Have often gazed with fond delight; By day that form their joy supplies, And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice whose tones inspire Such thrills of rapture through my breast,

I would not hear a seraph choir

Unless that voice could join the rest.

There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek;

But pallid at one fond farewell,

NEELI

Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip which mine hath pressed, And none had ever pressed before; It vowed to make me sweetly blest, And mine-mine only-pressed it more There is a bosom-all my own

Hath pillowed oft this aching head; A mouth which smiles on me alone, An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet;

That pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave-or cease to beat. There are two souls whose equal flow, In gentle streams so calmly run, That when they part-they part !—ah, nɔ ! They can not part-those souls are one!

LOVE IN ABSENCE.

OH! my dear peerless wife!

BYRON,

By the blue sky and all its crowding stars
I love you better-oh! far better than
Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee:
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon,
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
Of thee, my love, to my fond anxious heart!
BARRY CORNWALL.

LOVE's sooner felt than seen :

Oft in a voice he creeps down through the ear; Oft from a blushing cheek he lights his fire;

Oft shrouds his golden flame in likest hair;
Oft in a soft, smooth cheek doth close retire;
Oft in a sinile, oft in a silent tear;
And if all fail, yet Virtue's self will lure!

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

BEAUTY, WEALTH, AND LOVE.

WEALTH, with golden key, once sought
To win the way to Beauty's shrir.2;
Many a sparkling gem he brought,

And many a diamond from the mine;
But Love, veiled in slight disguise,
Hovered round near Beauty's bower,
Lest the gems of Eastern skies

Should weigh against his power.
Wealth displayed his dazzling store,
Pearly wreaths and ruby crowns;

Beauty ran the treasures o'er,
And smiles succeeded frowns.

What could Love oppose to this?

He had but his crown of simple flowers,
That were bathed in the honeyed dew of bliss,
Culled fresh from his roseate bowers.

Then Wealth laughed out triumphantly,
As he led young Beauty's steps along,
Who turned on Love a scornful eye,
And a cold ear to his song.

Away they went-and their path was strewn
With many a rare and precious gem,
That springs up at Wealth's command alone;
All--all shone brightly for them!

But Feauty, at last, found out her mistake,
When time had broken the charm;

As the moonbeam shines on the frozen lake,,

Wealth may glitter-but can not warm!

Then too late-she remembered Love's rosy bowers,
When the spell that beguiled was o'er;

And she sighed for the fresh unfading flowers
That could blossom for her—no more!

A SOLEMN CONCEIT. DOTH Love live in Beauty's eyes? Why, then, are they so unloving? Patience in her passion proving There his sorrow chiefly lies.

Lives belief in lovers' hearts ?

Why, then, are they unbelieving?
Hourly so the spirit grieving
With a thousand jealous smarts.

Is there pleasure in love's passion?
Why inen, is it unp1asing,
Heart and spirit both diseasing,
Where the wits are out of fashion?
No: Love sees in Beauty's eyes

He hath only lost his seeing,
Where, in Sorrow's only being
All his comfort wholly dies:
Fain within the heart of love,
Fearful of the thing it hath,
Treading of a trembling path,
Doth but jealousy approve.

In Love's passion, then, what pleasure,
Which is but a lunacy,

Where grief, fear, and jealousy,
Plague the senses out of measure?
Farewell, then, unkindly fancy,
In thy courses all too cruel:
Wo the price of such a jewel
As turns reason to a phrensy!

AN ODE.

Now each creature joys the other, Passing happy days and hours; One bird reports unto another,

N. BRETON

In the fall of silver showers; Whilst the Earth, our common mother, Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven

With bright ray warms Flora's lap,
Making nights and days both even,
Cheering plants with fresher sap;
My field of flowers, quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.
Echo, daughter of the air,

Babbling guest of rocks and hills,
Knows the name of my fierce fair,
And sounds the accents of my ills:
Each thing pities my despair,
Whilst that she her lover kills.
Whilst that she, O cruel maid!
Doth me and my love despise,
My life's flourish is decayed,

That depended on her eyes;
But her will must be obeyed,

And well he ends for love who dies.
SAMUEL DANIEL

LADY! Sweet maid, with flowing auburn hair, Lips like twin cherries, eyes of heavenly blue, And blooming cheek, tinctured with Health's own hue, Such as in Spring the apple-blossoms wear; Cheerful as Morn, and innocent as fair! Accept this Garland, for it is thy due: Thou didst direct me oft where hidden grew Love's fairest plants, of scent and beauty rare, And warn me oft against a noxious flower,

Of color bright, and tempting to the eye, But all unfit in Beauty's breast to lie, To wreath her brow, or deck her latticed bower: Uncropped I passed such canker-blossoms by, Wandering with thee through meads in summer hour.

SONNET.

I MUST not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have a time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.
And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither,
And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;
Pity and smiles do best become the fair;

Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
SAMUEL DANIEL

OF LINGERINGE LOVE.

In lingeringe ove mislikinge growes,
Wherby our fancies ebbs and flowes;
We love to day, and hate to morne,
And dayly when we list to scorne.
Take heed, therefore,

If she mislike, then love no more:
Quick speed makes waste;
Love is not gotten in such haste.

The suit is colde that soone is done;
The fort is feeble, eas'ly wonne;

The awk that soon comes by her prey,
May take a toy and soar away.

Mark what means this;

Some thinke to hit, and yet they miss :
First creepe, then goe;

Me thinke our love is handled soe.

For lacke of bellowes the fire goes out;
Some say the nighest way is about:
Few things are had without some suit;
The tree at first will bear no fruit.

Serve long, hope well,

Loe here is all that I can tell:

Time tries out troth,

And troth is liked wherere it go❜th.

Some thinke all theirs that they do seeke;
Some wantons woo but for a weeke;
Some woo to shew their subtle wits,
Such palfreys play upon their bits.

Fine heads, God knows,

That plucke a nettle for a rose !
They meet their match,

And fare the worse because they snatch.

We silly women can not rest

For men that love to woo in jest ;
Some lay their baite in ev'ry nooke,
And ev'ry fish doth spie their hooke.
Ill ware, good cheape,*

Which makes us looke before we leape;
Craft can cloke much;

God save all simple souls from such!

Though lingeringe love be lost some while, Yet lingeringe lovers laugh and smile; Who will not linger for a day,

To banish hope, and hop away?

Love must be plied;

Who thinkes to sayle must wait the tide.

Thus ends his dance:

God send all lingerers happie chance!

MY MISTRESS' FACE.

ANONYMOUS.

AND Would you see my mistress' face?
It is a flow'ry garden place,

Where knots of beauty have such grace,
That all is work, and no where space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding never born;
It is a meadow yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heaven's bright reflex,
Weak to dazzle and to vex;

It is the Idea of her sex,

Envy of whom doth world perplex.

It is a face of death that smiles,
Pleasing, though it kills the whiles;
Where Death and Love, in pretty wiles,
Each other mutually beguiles.

It is fair Beauty's freshest youth;
It is the feigned Elysium's truth;
The spring that wintered hearts renew❜th,
And this is that my soul pursu'th.

THOMAS CAMPION

CONQUEST BY FLIGHT.
LADIES, fly from Love's smooth tale!
Oaths steeped in tears do oft prevail;
Grief is infectious, and the air
Inflamed with sighs will blast the fair!
Then stop your ears when lovers cry,
Lest yourself weep, when no soft eye
Shall with a sorrowing tear repay
That pity which you cast away.

Young men, fly, when Beauty darts
Amorous glances at your hearts!

The fixed mark gives the shooter aim,
And ladies' looks have power to maim;
Now 'twixt their lips, now in their eyes,
Wrapped in a smile, or kiss, Love lies.
Then fly betimes; for only they
Conquer Love that run away.

THE PRIMROSE.

THOMAS CAREW

* Bargain.

SAMUEL DANIEL