love poems

PARAPHRASE

On Joh. 3.16 — For God so loved the World, that he gave his only begotten Son, &c.

I.

Yes; so God loved the World; But where
Are this Great Loves Dimensions?
Even Angels stop; for, baffled here
Are their vast Apprehensions.
In vain they strive to Grasp the boundless thing;
Not all their Comments can explain the mighty Truth I sing.

II.

Yet still they pause on the Contents

I.

Do you hear, Lorenzo? I say these wishes and vague desires
Will all of them pass away, though now they seem so bright;
They are will-o'-the-wisps that breed uncertain treacherous fires:
No real lamps that lead the traveller through the night.

II.

My youth has gone like a song. You heed not an old man's words.
Yet once, like you, I was young. Alas! I know it all;
And often my memory smites my thoughts, and awakens chords
Of far and dim delights, that I tremble as I recall.

III.

Yes , it is the queenly moon
Walking through her starred saloon,
Silvering all she looks upon:
I am her Endymion;
For by night she comes to me, —
O, I love her wondrously.

She into my window looks,
As I sit with lamp and books,
And the night-breeze stirs the leaves,
And the dew drips down the eaves;
O'er my shoulder peepeth she,
O, she loves me royally!

Then she tells me many a tale,
With her smile, so sheeny pale,
Till my soul is overcast
With such dream-light of the past,

I

J ESUS , how precious is thy Name!
The great J EHOVAH'S Darling, Thou!
O let me catch th' immortal Flame,
With which Angelic Bosoms glow!
Since Angels love Thee, I would love,
And imitate the Blest above.

II

My Prophet Thou, my heav'nly Guide,
Thy sweet Instructions I will hear,
The Words, that from thy Lips proceed,
O how divinely sweet they are!
Thee, my great Prophet , I would love,
And imitate the Blest above.

III

My great High-Priest , whose precious Blood

I.

Where now are all my flatt'ring dreams of joy?
Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest; —
Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,
Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast!

II.

Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,
With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour;
Lead beauty thro' the mazes of the ball,
Or press her wanton in love's roseate bow'r.

III.

For me, no more I'll range th' empurpled mead,
Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around;

" And God saw the light that it was good. "

I heard a tale long, long ago,
Where I had gone apart to pray
By Shasta's pyramid of snow,
That touches me unto this day.
I know the fashion is to say
An Arab tale, an Orient lay;
But when the grocer rings my gold
On counter, flung from greasy hold,
He cares not from Acadian vale
It comes, or savage mountain chine; —
But this the Shastan tale:

Once in the olden, golden days,

I SIGH not, while thou art my soul! Fair one, thou art to me
A golden cup, with water filled of immortality.
I sit me down, that over me may fall thy shadow, sweet;
Thou art a gold-embroidered tent to shield me from the heat.
First hear my fault, and, if thou wilt, then slay this erring man;
Thou hast all power; to me thou art the Sultan and the Khan.

Thy waist is like a cypress-tree, sugar thy tongue, in sooth;
Thy lip is candy, and thy skin like Frankish satin smooth.
Thy teeth are pearls and diamonds, the gates of dulcet tones;

Thou , who within these hallow'd walls shalt move,
Know that this stone was fix'd by gen'rous love;
A husband's fondest hopes beneath it rest,
A wife, in whom fair virtue stood confest;
In whom sweet love, and mild compassion join'd,
With each soft grace that decks the female mind;
A wife who never gave her husband pain,
But when pale death had rank'd her with the slain!
What soothing joys her goodness did impart,
Ah! read them in her partner's broken heart!
Think, in his grief, thou seest her virtues rise,

M Y God ! the Wretch that does not love Thy Name
To Life and Being forfeits all his Claim,
And may he fink to nothing whence he came.
Or let the Yawn of the dire Mouth of Hell,
Receive him with his Fellow-Fiends to dwell.

Oh! if my Heart does not to Thee aspire,
If ought with equal Fervour I desire,
I'm self-condemn'd, and doom myself to Fire.
Let not my guilty Breath profane Thy Air,
Nor groaning Earth the monstrous Burden bear.

On Approach of Winter.

Come , my Silvia , come away;
Youth and Beauty will not stay;
Let's enjoy the present now.
Heark, tempestuous Winter's Roar,
How it blusters at the Door,
Charg'd with Frosts, and Storms, and Snow.

Seated near the crackling Fire,
Let's indulge our fond Desire,
Careless of rough Borea 's Blast:
Let us teach the blooming Youth,
What Joys attend on Love and Truth;
How much they please, how long they last.

The am'rous Warblers of the Grove,