love poem

For love no time has she, or inclination,
Yet must coquet it for the sake of fashion;
For this she listens to each fop that's near,
Th' embroidered colonel flatters with a sneer,
And the cropped ensign nuzzles in her ear.
But with most warmth her dress and airs inspire
Th' ambtious bosom of the landed Squire,
Who fain would quit plump Dolly's softer charms
For withered lean Right Honourable arms;
He bows with reverence at her sacred shrine,
And treats her as if sprung from race divine,

1.

 N OW sure, within this twelve month past,
I'have lov'd at least some twenty years or more:
 The account of Love runs much more fast
 Than that, with which our Life does score:
So though my Life be short , yet I may prove
 The great Methusalem of Love .

2.

 Not that Loves Hours or Minutes are
Shorter than those our Being 's measur'ed by:
 But they're more close compacted far,
 And so in lesser room do lye.
Thin airy things extend themselves in space,
 Things solid take up little place.

Now by my Love , the greatest Oath that is,
 None loves you half as well as I:
 I do not ask your Love for this;
But for Heave'ns sake believe me , or I dye
 No Servant e're but did deserve
His Master should believe that he does serve;
And I'll ask no more wages , though I starve .

'Tis no luxurious Diet this, and sure
 I shall not by't too Lusty prove;
 Yet shall it willingly endure,
If't can but keep together Life and Love .
 Being your Priso'ner and your slave ,
I do not Feasts and Banquets look to have,

CANTO I .

Stay your rude steps, or e'er your feet invade
The Muses' haunts, ye Sons of War and Trade!
Nor you, ye Legion Fiends of Church and Law,
Pollute these pages with unhallow'd paw!
Debased, corrupted, groveling, and confined,
No D EFINITIONS touch your senseless mind;
To you no P OSTULATES prefer their claim,
No ardent A XIOMS your dull souls inflame:
For you , no T ANGENTS touch, no A NGLES meet,
No C IRCLES join in osculation sweet!

All who have loved, be sure of this from me,
That to have touched one little ripple free
Of golden hair, or held a little hand
Very long since, is better than to stand
Rolled up in vestures stiff with golden thread,
Upon a throne o'er many a bowing head
Of adulators; yea, and to have seen
Thy lady walking in a garden green,
'Mid apple blossoms and green twisted boughs,
Along the golden gravel path, to house
Herself, where thou art watching far below,
Deep in thy bower impervious, even though

The thorn-tree keeps its leaves for ever green
All the year round; and when the wind blows keen,
And strips all trees the summer's pride and chief,
This holdeth fast, and will not quit one leaf.
Likewise when Christ had worn the thorny crown,
That year the sorry thorn-tree trickled down
With drops of blood, and ever since hath worn
Those bleeding berries in its leaves of thorn
Wherefore all doleful lovers prize that tree,
Both for its sorrow and its constancy;
And all they say that it is good to wear

The Love of Praise

The love of praise, howe'er concealed by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in ev'ry heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells,
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells.
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades;
Here, to Swift's humour makes a bold pretence,
There, bolder, aims at Pultney's eloquence.

Love is enough: though the World be a-waning
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,
And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

Love is enough: it grew up without heeding

Peace , throbbing heart, nor let us shed one tear
O'er this late love's unseasonable glow;
Sweet as a violet blooming in the snow,
The posthumous offspring of the widowed year,
That smells of March when all the world is sere,
And, while around the hurtling sea-winds blow—
Which twist the oak and lay the pine tree low—
Stands childlike in the storm and has no fear.

Poor helpless blossom orphaned of the sun,
How could it thus brave winter's rude estate?
Oh love, more helpless love, why bloom so late,

What magic is there in thy mien,
What sorcery in thy smile,
Which charms away all cark and care,
Which turns the foul days into fair,
And for a little while
Changes this disenchanted scene
From the sere leaf into the green,
Transmuting with love's golden wand
This beggared life to fairyland?

My heart goes forth to thee, oh friend,
As some poor pilgrim to a shrine,
A pilgrim who has come from far
To seek his spirit's folding star,
And sees the taper shine;
The goal to which his wanderings tend,