LOVE SONG

From the Icelandic

I was a sea-gull flying north
In the wrong season's
Distress; some fear had cast me forth
And some malfeasance.
The wind conveyed me past control;
My plumes were slanted;
To dash myself against the Pole
Was all I wanted.
My brain was frozen in my head,
My iris blinded;
To be destroyed and quickly dead
Was all I minded;
To dash my body on the ice
In shining splinters
And pile it with a century's
Contiguous winters.
I saw a lighthouse looking out

We travelled in the print of olden wars,
Yet all the land was green,
And love we found, and peace,
Where fire and war had been.

They pass and smile, the children of the sword —
No more the sword they wield;
And O, how deep the corn
Along the battle-field!1 From Travels with a Donkey .

Espilus . Silvanus long in love, and long in vain,
At length obtained the point of his desire,
When being asked, now that he did obtain
His wished weal, what more he could require:
" Nothing," said he, " for most I joy in this,
That goddess mine my blessed being sees."

Therion . When wanton Pan , deceived with lion's skin,
Came to the bed where wound for kiss he got,
To woe and shame the wretch did enter in,

IX

Him loved she. Lo, now was he veiled:
Over sea stood a swelled cloud-rack:
The fishing-boat havenward sailed,
Bent abeam with a whitened track,
Surprised, fast hauling the net,
As it flew: sea dashed, earth shook.
She said: Is it night? O not yet!
With a travail of thoughts in her look.
The mountain heaved up to its peak:
Sea darkened: earth gathered her fowl:
Of bird or of branch rose the shriek.
Night? but never so fell a scowl
Wore night, nor the sky since then

A WAKE thee, my lady-love,
— Wake thee and rise!
The sun through the bower peeps
— Into thine eyes!

Behold how the early lark
— Springs from the corn!
Hark, hark how the flower-bird
— Winds her wee horn!

The swallow's glad shriek is heard
— All through the air;
The stock-dove is murmuring
— Loud as she dare!

Apollo's winged bugleman
— Cannot contain,
But peals his loud trumpet-call
— Once and again!

Then wake thee, my lady-love —
— Bird of my bower!
The sweetest and sleepiest

VI

Within the surface of Time's fleeting river
Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay
Immovably unquiet, and for ever
It trembles, but it cannot pass away!
The voices of thy bards and sages thunder
With an earth-awakening blast
Through the caverns of the past:
(Religion veils her eyes; Oppression shrinks aghast:)

Just beguiler,
Kindest love, yet only chastest,
Royall in thy smooth denyals,
Frowning or demurely smiling,
Still my pure delight.

Let me view thee
With thoughts and with eyes affected,
And if then the flames do murmur,
Quench them with thy vertue, charme them
With thy stormy browes.

Heav'n so cheerefull
Laughs not ever, hory winter
Knowes his season, even the freshest
Sommer mornes from angry thunder
Jet not still secure.

Let us now sing of Loves delight,
For he alone is Lord to night.

Some friendship betweene man and man prefer,
But I th' affection betweene man and wife.

What good can be in life,
Whereof no fruites appeare?

Set is that Tree in ill houre,
That yeilds neither fruite nor flowre.

How can man Perpetuall be,
But in his owne Posteritie?
CHORUS.
That pleasure is of all most bountifull and kinde,
That fades not straight, but leaves a living Joy behinde.

While dancing rests, fit place to musicke graunting,
Good spels the Fates shall breath, al envy daunting,
Kind eares with Joy enchaunting, chaunting.
CHORUS.
Io, Io Hymen .

Like lookes, like hearts, like loves are linck't together:
So must the Fates be pleas'd, so come they hether,
To make this Joy persever ever.
CHORUS.
Io, Io Hymen .

Love decks the spring, her buds to th' ayre exposing:

85 Tuesday, 8 January 1751

Otia si tollas periere Cupidinis arcus
Contemptaeque jacent, et sine luce faces
Ovid [Remed. Amor. 139 40]

At busy hearts in vain love's arrows fly;
Dim, scorn'd, and impotent, his torches lie.