As Cupid, with his band of sprites,
        In Paphian grove set things to rights,
        And trimmed his bow and tipped his arrows,
        And taught, to play with Lesbia, sparrows,
        Thus Hymen said: "Your blindness makes,
        O Cupid, wonderful mistakes!
        You send me such ill-coupled folks:
        It grieves me, now, to give them yokes.
        An old chap, with his troubles laden,
        You bind to a light-hearted maiden;
        Or join incongruous minds together,
        To squabble for a pin or feather
        Until they sue for a divorce;
        To which the wife assents - of course."

        "It is your fault, and none of mine,"
        Cupid replied. "I hearts combine:
        You trade in settlements and deeds,

Not that I always struck the proper mean
Of what mankind must give for what they gain,
But, when I think of those whom dull routine
And the pursuit of cheerless toil enchain,
Who from their desk-chairs seeing a summer cloud
Race through blue heaven on its joyful course
Sigh sometimes for a life less cramped and bowed,
I think I might have done a great deal worse;
For I have ever gone untied and free,
The stars and my high thoughts for company;
Wet with the salt-spray and the mountain showers,
I have had the sense of space and amplitude,
And love in many places, silver-shoed,
Has come and scattered all my path with flowers.

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.

We met one fresh June-morn, Chlodine,
    Where two roads came together;
I'd travelled far through storm and rain,
    And you, through pleasant weather.
I loved you for the light, Chlodine,
    Of summer all around you, -
I loved you foil the sweet June-flowers,
    Whose dewy garlands bound you!

You loved me not, Chlodine, because
    The storms had beat upon me;
Because there was no breath of flowers,
    No summer sunshine on me; -
You could not see, Chlodine, that deep
    Within my soul were growing
Fresh flowers that evermore would keep
    The fragrance of their blowing.

And so we parted - you and I -
    Your ways all fresh and flowering;
Mine, rocky steeps up mountains high,
    'Neath skies with tempests lowering;
And...

I

The daughters of Mne Seraphim led round their sunny flocks,
All but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air.
To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day:
Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard;
And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew.

O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water?
Why fade these children of the spring? born but to smile & fall.
Ah! Thel is like a watry bow, and like a parting cloud,
Like a reflection in a glass: like shadows in the water
Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infants face.
Like the doves voice, like transient day, like music in the air:
Ah! gentle may I lay me down and gentle rest my head.
And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gently hear the voice
...

Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete
Take now your choice; the world is at your feet,
All turned into a gay and shining pleasance,
And every face has smiles to greet your presence.
    Treading on air,
    Yourself you look more fair;
And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire
To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire.

Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means
That sets you spinning through your pretty teens.
A slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers
Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers,
    Lo, how you run
    In mere excess of fun,
Or change to silence as you stand and hear
Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear.

And, since this is your own bright day, my dear,
Of all the days that gem the sparkling ...

    This day it was--Ah! years ago,
Long years ago, when first we met;
When first her voice thrill'd through my heart,
Aeolian-sweet, thrill'd through my heart;
    And glances from her soft brown eyes,
    Like gleamings out of Paradise,
Shone on my heart, and made it bright
With fulness of celestial light;
This day it seems--this day--and yet,
    Ah! years ago--long years ago.

    This day it was--Ah! years ago,
Long years ago, when first I knew
How all her beauty fill'd my soul,
With mystic glory fill'd my soul;
    And every word and smile she gave,
    Like motions of a sunlit wave,
Rock'd me with divine emotion,
Joyous, o'er Life's smiling ocean;
This day it seems--this day--and yet,
    Ah! years ago--long years ago.

   ...

(For a friend who mourns its passing.)

He took the earth as earth had been his throne;
And beauty as the red rose for his eye;
"Give me the moon," he said, "for mine alone;
Or I will reach and pluck it from the sky!"

And thou, Life, dost mourn him, for the day
Has darkened since the gallant youngling went;
And smaller seems thy dwelling-place of clay
Since he has left that valley tenement.

But oh, perchance, beyond some utmost gate.
While at the gate thy stranger feet do stand.
He shall approach thee, beautiful, elate.
Crowned with his moon, the red rose in his hand!

Bonny Yorksher! how aw love thi!
Hard an rugged tho' thi face is;
Ther's an honest air abaat thi,
Aw ne'er find i' other places.
Ther's a music i' thi lingo,
Spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley,
As a drop ov Yorksher stingo
Warms an cheers a body's bally.
Ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter,
Nor thy modest moorland blossom,
Th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter
Nor on thy green mossy bosom.
Hillsides deckt wi' purple heather,
Guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin
Hand i' hand wi' Peace, together
Tales ov sweet contentment tellin.
On the scroll ov fame an glory,
Names ov Yorksher heroes glisten;
History tells noa grander stooary,
An it thrills me as aw listen.
Young men blest wi' brain an muscle,
Swarm i' village, taan an city,

The spare-room windows wide were raised,
And you could look that summer day
On pastures green, and sunny hills,
And low rills wandering away.
Near by, the square front yard was sweet
With rose and caraway.

Upon a couch drawn near the light,
The Deacon's only daughter lay,
Bending upon the distant hills
Her eyes of dark and thoughtful gray;
The blue veins on her forehead shone
'Twas wasted so away.

She moved, and from her slender hand
Fell off her mother's wedding-ring;
She smiled into her father's face -
"So drops from me each earthly thing;
My hands are free to hold the flowers
Of the eternal spring."

She had ever walked in quiet ways,
Not over beds of flowery ease,
But Sundays in the village choir
She sweetly sang o...

See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow...

    The sounds of mid-night trickle into the roar
    Of morning over the water growing blue.
    At ten o'clock the August sunbeams pour
    A blinding flood on Michigan Avenue.

    But yet the half-drawn shades of bottle green
    Leave the recesses of the room
    With misty auras drawn around their gloom
    Where things lie undistinguished, scarcely seen.

    You, standing between the window and the bed
    Are edged with rainbow colors. And I lie
    Drowsy with quizzical half-open eye
    Musing upon the contour of your head,
    Watching you comb your hair,
    Clothed in a corset waist and skirt of silk,
    Tied with white braid above your slender hips
    Which reaches to your knees and makes your bare
    And delicate legs by contrast w...

    Of all the swains that meet at eve
    Upon the green to play,
    The shepherd is the lad for me,
    And I'll ne'er say him nay.
    Though father glowers beneath his hat,
    And mother talks of bed,
    I'll take my cloak up, late or soon,
    To meet my shepherd lad.

    Aunt Kitty loved a soldier lad,
    Who left her love for war;
    A sailor loved my sister Sue,
    Whose jacket smelt of tar;
    But my love's sweet as land new ploughed;
    He is my heart's delight,
    And he ne'er leaves his love so far
    But he can come at night.

    So father he may glower and frown,
    And mother scold about it;
    The shepherd has my heart to keep,
    And can I live without it?
    I'm sure he will not part with it,

    "The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?
    Or what does he regard his single woes?
    But when, alas! he multiplies himself,
    To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair,
    The those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,
    To helpless children! then, O then! he feels
    The point of misery fest'ring in his heart,
    And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward.
    Such, such am I! undone."

Thomson.


I.

    Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains,
    Far dearer than the torrid plains
        Where rich ananas blow!
    Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
    A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!
        My Jean's heart-rending throe!
    Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft
        Of my parental care,
  ...

Thrice, and above, blest, my soul's half, art thou,
In thy both last and better vow;
Could'st leave the city, for exchange, to see
The country's sweet simplicity;
And it to know and practise, with intent
To grow the sooner innocent;
By studying to know virtue, and to aim
More at her nature than her name;
The last is but the least; the first doth tell
Ways less to live, than to live well:
And both are known to thee, who now canst live
Led by thy conscience, to give
Justice to soon-pleased nature, and to show
Wisdom and she together go,
And keep one centre; This with that conspires
To teach man to confine desires,
And know that riches have their proper stint
In the contented mind, not mint;
And canst instruct that those who have the itch
Of cravin...

O beautiful Stars, when you see me go
    Hither and thither, in search of love,
Do you think me faithless, who gleam and glow
    Serene and fixed in the blue above?
    O Stars, so golden, it is not so.

But there is a garden I dare not see,
    There is a place where I fear to go,
Since the charm and glory of life to me
    The brown earth covered there, long ago.
    O Stars, you saw it, you know, you know.

Hither and thither I wandering go,
    With aimless haste and wearying fret;
In a search for pleasure and love?    Not so,
    Seeking desperately to forget.
    You see so many, O Stars, you know.

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,
    The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn,
    The dark robe floating, the dejection worn
    On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes;
Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes
    It pays Affection's debt, is due concern
    To the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mourn
    Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes,
While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flame
    Memory shou'd hourly feed; - if, thro' each day,
    She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say,
Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame,
    O! can the alien Heart expect to prove,
    In worlds of light and life, a reunited love!

These are the flowers of sleep
That nod in the heavy noon,
Ere the brown shades eastward creep
To a drowsy and dreamful tune,
These are the flowers of sleep.

Love’s lilies are passion-pale,
But these on the sun-kissed flood
Of the corn, that rolls breast deep,
Burn redder than drops of blood
On a dead king’s golden mail.

Heart’s dearest, I would that we
These blooms of forgetfulness
Might bind on our brows, and steep
Our love in Lethe ere less
Grow its flame with thee or me.

When Time with his evil eye
The beautiful Love has slain,
There is nought to gain or keep
Thereafter, and all is vain.
Should we wait to see Love die?

Sweetheart, of the joys men reap
We have reaped; ’tis time to rest.
Why should we wak...