love poems

Think on that look whose melting ray
For one sweet moment mixt with mine,
And for that moment seemed to say,
" I dare not, or I would be thine! "

Think on thy every smile and glance,
On all thou hast to charm and move;
And then forgive my bosom's trance,
Nor tell me it is sin to love.

Oh, not to love thee were the sin;
For sure, if Fate's decrees be done,
Thou, thou art destined still to win,

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM .

They say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you),
Where, all who came, the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'T was Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume bright and fair,
And saw that no unhallowed line
Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill

Yes , if 't were any common love,
That led my pliant heart astray,
I grant, there's not a power above
Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But, 't was my doom to err with one
In every look so like to thee
That, underneath yon blessed sun
So fair there are but thou and she

Both born of beauty, at a birth,
She held with thine a kindred sway,
And wore the only shape on earth
That could have lured my soul to stray.

Then blame me not, if false I be,
'T was love that waked the fond excess;

Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne maium.

S ECUNDUS , eleg. vil.

Still the question I must parry,
Still a wayward truant prove:
Where I love, I must not marry;
Where I marry, can not love.

Were she fairest of creation,
With the least presuming mind;
Learned without affectation;
Not deceitful, yet refined;

Wise enough, but never rigid;

Back in those days ere I thought of love,
Kissing at games in a picnic grove,
Cried one lass as she made a spring:
" Make me a Lap! you stingy thing! "
Down in my lap sat the tired madcap
And in a snap she had " made her a Lap. "

Lissome, pliant, innocent vine,
Still to my heart I can feel her twine,
Trustfully as my kitten's play,
Light as the birds in that greenwood day;
Sweet as the sap in the fruit tree's tap,
Vine-like her wrap as I " made her a Lap. "

Country heart! there is no mishap, —

We are climbin' Jacob's ladder,
Soldier(s) of the cross.

Ev'ry round goes higher 'n' higher,
Soldier(s) of the cross.

Sinner ( or : brother), do you love my Jesus?
Soldier(s) of the cross.

Rise, shine, give God the glory,
Soldier(s) of the cross.

Another couplet:

If you love Him, why not serve Him?

By Mr. Brown .

Whether we Mortals love or no,
'Tis the same Case whate'er we do.
For Love does killing Pleasure give,
And without Love 'tis Death to Live:
If then to love, so painful be,
And not to love be Misery,
What a sad Case must he be in,
Who has disgrac'd and jilted been?
Banish'd for ever from those Eyes,
Which conquer Fools, and fool the Wise,
And none but Stoicks can despise?
They conquer, but they will not yield,
Love knows no such unequal Field:

A Poem.

M Y muse of Thirsis sings, and of the shade,
Where he, poor shepherd, with his Daphne stray'd:
On D UNSMORE waste, there stands a shady grove,
The sweet recess of solitude and love;
Hazles on this, on that side elms are seen,
To shade the verdant path that leads between.
A rose, less lovely than young Thirsis gay,
Adorns the sprig that bends across the way;
The way that does with various flow'rs abound,
The gentle shepherd cast his eyes around;

The Bard

A H me! but I'm sorry,
And with worry I'm sore,
I am powerless to state
What my fate is each hour.
What but my heart's anguish
Makes me languish such wise?
With the love that I've loved her,
Ne'er above it I'll rise.

The Crone

Silence, rascal, deal fairly,
Untruths spare to exhale,
I will yet trust thee barely
That there's no gild-thy-tale.

Thou tyrant God of Love, give o'er,
And persecute this breast no more:
Ah! tell me why must every dart
Be aim'd at my unhappy heart?
I never murmur'd or repin'd,
But patiently myself resign'd
To all the torments, which through thee
Have fell, alas! on wretched me:
But Oh! I can no more sustain
This long continued state of pain,
Though 'tis but fruitless to complain.
My heart, first soften'd by thy power,
Ne'er kept its liberty an hour:
So fond and easy was it grown,
Each nymph might call the fool her own: