She loves — but 'tis not me she loves: —
Not me on whom she ponders,
When in some dream of tenderness
Her truant fancy wanders.
The forms that flit her visions through
Are like the shapes of old,
Where tales of Prince and Paladin
On tapestry are told.
Man may not hope her heart to win,
Be his of common mould!

But I — though spurs are won no more
Where herald's trump is pealing,

Ay! there it is, that winning smile,
That look that cheats my heart for ever,
That tone that will my brain beguile
Till reason from her seat shall sever.
All, all bewitching, as when last
I for the twentieth time forswore them,
Resistless as when first I cast
My whole adoring soul before them.

Like carrier doves that hurry back
To the bright home from which they're parted,
However blind may be their track,
Or far the goal from which they started, —
So from Love's jesses if e'er free
I set my thoughts one moment roving,

They are mockery all — those skies, those skies —
Their untroubled depths of blue;
They are mockery all — these eyes, these eyes,
Which seem so warm and true.
Each quiet star in the one that lies,
Each meteor glance that at random dies
The other's lashes through;
They are mockery all, these flowers of spring,
Which her airs so softly woo;
And the love to which we would madly cling,
Ay! it is mockery too;
The winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the looks deceive to which we sue,
And love but leads to the sepulchre,

Kisse me, ├┤ kisse me, with Loues honyed Kisse ,
├┤ dearest Loue, and sweet'st-Heart of my Soule:
Whose loue is like pure Wine that cordiall is;
& doth sowre eares, with Comforts sweet, controle.

Thy Name is like so sweet suffused Balme :
which makes chast Soules eu'n sick for loue of thee:
Whose Passions (striuing in a blessed calme
on Sorrowes Seas) to thee still rowling be.

Drawe me (deare Loue) then, after thee Ile runne

O Past beginning, and immortall Sprit ,
eternall, and incomprehensible:
Incircumscrib'd in Maiestie and Might;
seene all in All , yet most insensible:

Immutable, impassible, most iust;
inscrutable; in mercy, most compleate:
From whom they came, and vnto whom they must
that doe beleeue thou art as good, as great:

Who by thy ne'er too-much applauded Word
hast framed whatsoe'er created is;
One blessed TRINITIE , in true accord

Love , art thou lonely to-day?
Lost love that I never see,
Love that, come noon or come night,
Comes never to me;
Love that I used to meet
In the hidden past, in the land
Of forbidden sweet.

Love! do you never miss
The old light in the days?
Does a hand
Come and touch thee at whiles
Like the wand of old smiles,
Like the breath of old bliss?
Or hast thou forgot,
And is all as if not?

What was it we swore?
" Evermore!

1

Surely at last, O Lady, the sweet moon
That bringeth in the happy singing weather
Groweth to pearly queendom, and full soon
Shall Love and Song go hand in hand together;
For all the pain that all too long hath waited
In deep dumb darkness shall have speech at last,
And the bright babe Death gave the Love he mated
Shall leap to light and kiss the weeping past.

For all the silver morning is a-glimmer

CANT. II.

S PONSUS .

I AM the lily of the vale,
The rose of Sharon's fragrant dale.
Lo, as th' unsullied lily shows
Which in a brake of brambles grows,
My love so darkens all that are
By erring men admir'd for fair.

S PONSA .

L O , as the tree which citrons bears
Amidst the barren shrubs appears,
So my Belov'd excells the race
Of man in ev'ry winning grace.
In His desired shade I rest,

Ay, she was as Madonna to
The tawny, lawless, faithful few
Who touched her hand and knew her soul:
She drew them, drew them as the pole
Points all things to itself.

She drew
Men upward as a moon of spring
High wheeling, vast and bosom-full,
Half clad in clouds and white as wool,
Draws all the strong seas following.

Yet still she moved as sad, as lone
As that same moon that leans above,
And seems to search high heaven through
For some strong, all sufficient love,

TO A RCHILOCHUS

Pause , and scan well Archilochus, the bard of elder days,
By east and west
Alike's confest
The mighty lyrist's praise.
Delian Apollo loved him well, and well the sister choir:
His songs were fraught
With subtle thought,
And matchless was his lyre.