love poem

She loved him—but she heeded not—
Her heart had only room for pride:
All other feelings were forgot,
When she became another's bride.
As from a dream she then awoke,
To realize her lonely state,
And own it was the vow she broke
That made her drear and desolate!

She loved him—but the sland'rer came,
With words of hate that all believed;
A stain thus rested on his name—
But he was wronged and she deceived;
Ah! rash the act that gave her hand,
That drove her lover from her side—

O Saviour, loving Saviour, we hear thee gently calling
Us forth to the vineyard to labor for thee;
“Go preach to ev'ry nation,” thou hast to us commanded,
Oh, give us thy spirit, more faithful to be.
O Saviour, loving Saviour, thy message of salvation
Is free unto all who on thee will believe;
But millions yet in darkness are bowing to their idols,
Oh, may they awaken, thy grace to receive.
We are ready, dear Saviour! with zeal now enkindle
These hearts to thy service, and show us the way;

Last night we sailed, my love and I,
Last night and years ago—
Was it moon or sea, we drifted through?
I think I shall never know!
We had no oar—
We neared no shore—
We floated with the tide;
The moon was white,
And the sea alight,
And none in the world beside.

I and my love, we said farewell—
It is years and years away.
We kissed our last in a life gone by—
I think it was yesterday!
Oh! for heaven, give me
A moon and a sea
To sail, when we both have died,
With never an oar—

My deerest Mistrisse, let us live and love,
And care not what old doting fooles reprove.
Let us not feare their sensures, nor esteeme,
What they of us and of our loves shall deeme.
Old ages critticke and sensorious brow
Cannot of youthfull dalliance alow,
Nor never could endure that wee should tast,
Of those delights which they themselves are past.

My hand from my Beloved's skirt I cannot take away,
Though with a sword she smite me sharp, and, in her anger, slay:
I have no place of sheltering, no refuge half so sweet;
If I should fly 'twould only be to creep back to her feet.

Weary perhaps of dolorous love,
The cat has stol'n a bit to eat.

Women have loved before as I love now;
At least, in lively chronicles of the past—
Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow
Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mast
Much to their cost invaded—here and there,
Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest,
I find some woman bearing as I bear
Love like a burning city in the breast.
I think however that of all alive
I only in such utter, ancient way
Do suffer love; in me alone survive
The unregenerate passions of a day
When treacherous queens, with death upon the tread,

When a felon's not engaged in his employment,
Or maturing his felonious little plans,
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
Is just as great as any honest man's.
Our feelings we with difficulty smother
When constabulary duty's to be done:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
A policeman's lot is not a happy one!

When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,
When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,
And listen to the merry village chime.

Through life on journeying, by its thorny paths,
Or pleasant ways—its rank green hemlock wastes,
Or roseate bowers—in utter loneliness,
Or 'mid the din of busy multitudes—
Two babes of beauty linger near us still—
Twin Cherubim—that leave us not until
We've passed the threshold of that crowded inn
Which borders on Eternity! One doth point,
With gleaming eye and finger tremulous,
To clefts in azure, where the sunbeams slumber
On couch of vermeil dye and amethyst,
Bordered with flowers that never know decay;

O love! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,
Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits;
A player, masquerading many parts
In life's odd carnival;—a boy that shoots,
From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts;
A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots;
The Puck of Passion—partly false—part real—
A marriageable maiden's “beau ideal.”

O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,
Making green misses spoil their work at school;
A melancholy man, cross-gartering?
Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool?