love poems

A " Melody " of Tom Moore's . 1813.

Through Erin's isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valour wander'd
With Wit the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd:
Where'er they pass,
A triple grass

With your elephants in rut, with your proud horses, with your fame
that does not fade, Pekan, you who gave clothing to the dark
mindless peacock in compassion because it was shivering with the cold!
I come to you not because I am hungry, not because of the burden
of my family! But the gift for which I beg is that tonight
you may mount your chariot strung with bells and free her
of the anguish she lives with, and for that I sing “May those
who love mercy act with justice!” while I play on my small yal
black as a kalam berry, keeping

The glowing Seraph with the brow of light
Was first among the Faithful. When the war
Between heaven's rival armies fiercely waged,
She bore the Will Divine from rank to rank,
The chosen courier of Deity.
Her presence cheered the combatants for Truth,
And Victory stood up where'er she moved.
And now, in gleaming robe of woven pearl,
Emblazoned with devices of the stars,
And legends of their glory yet to come,
The type of Beauty Intellectual,
The representative of Love and Truth,
She moves first in the innumerable throng

Back from a journey; mournful, it is true,
But mingled with a deep-down sweetness, too.
After the law with that poor girl was done,
I found permission with the proper one,
And, though such things by law could not occur,
In my heart-family I adopted her.
(Help much too late to benefit her, living —
It's that way with a good share of our giving!)
But with a father's love, " Poor girl! " I said,
" You shall have all that I can give you, dead! "
I found, by lightning inquiries I made,

LIB . II. Ode IV.— CLASSICAL LOVE MATCHES .

Odeem not thy love for a captive maid
Doth, Phoceus, the heart of a Roman degrade!
Like the noble Achilles, 'tis simply, simply,
With a “Briseis” thou sharest thy bed.

Ajax of Telamon did the same,
Felt in his bosom a Phrygian flame;
Taught to contemn none, King Agamemnon
Fond of a Trojan slave became.
Such was the rule with the Greeks of old,
When they had conquer'd the foe's stronghold;
When gallant Hector—Troy's protector—
Falling, the knell of Ilion toll'd.

ODE XXX.— THE DEDICATION OF GLYCERA'S CHAPEL .

O Venus! Queen of Cyprus isle,
Of Paphos and of Gnidus,
Hie from thy favourite haunts awhile,
And make abode amid us;
Glycera's altar for thee smokes,
With frankincense sweet-smelling—
Thee, while the charming maid invokes,
Hie to her lovely dwelling!

Let yon bright Boy, whose hand hath grasped
Love's blazing torch, precede thee,
While gliding on, with zone unclasped,
The sister Graces lead thee:
Nor be thy Nymph-attendants missed:

To the Summer Haunt of Laura.

Sweet fountain of Vaucluse!
The virgin freshness of whose crystal bed
The ladye, idol of my soul! hath led
Within thy wave her fairy bath to choose!
And thou, O favourite tree!
Whose branches she loved best
To shade her hour of rest —
Her own dear native land's green mulberry!
Roses, whose earliest bud

I am the Nymph Confidence : —
I drive away distrust and doubt,
That into homes like serpents crawl;
And jealousy, that coils about
The heart and turns the blood to gall.
Mine are the true and loving eyes,
Through which one looks in on the Soul,
The loyal troth that Time defies,
The faith that can mistrust control.
Here I abide, a constant guest,
With Peace and Love, and sweet Content;
By us this home shall still be blest,
Beyond the reach of accident.

I am the life of the household,
The Love of the husband and wife,
The love between parents and children,
The love that is dearer than life.
Eyes by me lighted grow brighter,
Hearts by me warmed are glad,
Homes where I live are lighter,
And sorrowing souls less sad.
When the bridal flowers have withered,
I do not pine away,
My flowers bloom and are gathered
In November as in May.
They fade not, this home perfuming,
As they did so long ago
Here they shall still be blooming,

SLEEP.

But come to me, O Sleep! I love thy spell,
Although thy waving mirror hath no power
To stay the visions of the midnight hour,
Or, like the certain shapes of day, compel
The forms that haunt the shade of memory's cell
To stand before me. Come and bring thy dreams!
I love to see the dim and wavering gleams,
As journeying downward to thy mystic dell,
I stand beside thy deep and shadowy lake;
Still let me come and wander at thy will,
Through summer woods, by stream and sunny hill,