love poems

L AST in these favour'd ranks of Hymen's train
Matilda wears the myrtle's hallow'd chain.
Perhaps a Hermit's musing visions fail
To bind in Zephyr's hand the Summer's gale;
Else he could promise to so match'd a pair
Love at the heart, and spirits light as air.
I warn'd her against pride; — but when like this,
It is the Fairy's wand of nuptial bliss —
Pride in the rank that Love has made his own,
For sense and virtue are a scepter'd throne.

By her talent a secret will Celia discover,
As the picture will speak — it will say that I love her .

Y OU love a simile; — why then have at you:
You are in Scripture the Assyrian Statue;
Of you , with equal truth, it may be said,
The feet are clay , but golden is the head .

I will confesse
With Cheerfulnesse,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That let her lay
On me all day,
Ile kiss the hand that strikes me.

I will not, I,
Now blubb'ring, cry,
It (Ah!) too late repents me,
That I did fall
To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.

No, no, Ile be
In fetters free;
While others they sit wringing
Their hands for paine;
Ile entertaine
The wounds of love with singing.

Star of my Love! most faithless star
That e'er on mortal misery shone!
Years pass — and still thy votaries are
Apart — self-exiled — sad — alone —
And can it be our woes are known
To Heaven, and we still doomed to feel
Pangs which though seraphs breasts were stone
Might stroke upon their hearts like steel,
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! my years decline,

Star of my Love! unmarked of late,
Again on thee my eyes I bend
Celestial messenger of Fate
What thoughts on thy bright path attend!
Evil or Good dost thou portend?
Pleasure or Pain? or Love or Hate?
Alas! how fondly do we blend
Our Earthly with thy heavenly state
What hopes what fears to thee ascend

Star of my Love! I hail again
Thy light on Nights calm, dark, blue, stream,
An absence grief and care and pain
Are as a half forgotten dream:
For she is here whose glances seem
To purify the earth from stain
And lend a more celestial beam
To Heaven and all it's glorious train —
O how our souls with rapture teem!
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! the holiest shrine

Star of my Love! how brightly burns
Thy mild, pure, tranquil flame, tonight,
Though thousands from their chrystal urns
Are pouring floods of silver light,
In thine alone I take delight,
For one who in my absence mourns
Gazes upon thee in thy flight
And every look I give returns
And therefore dost thou seem so bright
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! while thus on high

Here all is heartless, hollow, loud
Vain glittering shew and empty sound:
Society's a lonesome crowd,
Pleasure, the same dull tedious round.

One heart to love — one life to press —
One friend to trust — in some wild glen
Were less a waste, O! ten times less,
Than this vast solitude of men.

( OF JAMES LOWELL PUTNAM, IN ATHENÆUM GALLERY .)

A CALM , sweet face, with earnest eyes
And thoughtful brow, full-arched above it,
A mouth whose graveness won surprise,
Whose tender sweetness made one love it;
A face that told how souls aspire
That look beyond to-day's revealing;
A boy, with all of manhood's fire, —
A man, with all of boyhood's feeling.

They told his life, his honored name,