Sickness, intending my love to betray,
Before I should sight of my Dear obtain,
Did his pale colours in my face display,
Lest that my favour might her favour gain.
Yet, not content herewith, like means it wrought,
My Philomel's bright beauty to deface;
And Nature's glory to disgrace it sought,
That my conceived love it might displace.
But my firm love could this assault well bear,
Which virtue had, not beauty, for his ground;
And yet bright beams of beauty did appear
Through sickness veil, which made my love abound:

Oh! why did Fame my heart to love betray,
By telling my Dear's virtue and perfection?
Why, did my traitor ears to it convey
That siren song, cause of my heart's infection?
Had I been deaf, or Fame her gifts concealed,
Then had my heart been free from hopeless love:
Or were my state likewise by it revealed,
Well might it Philomel to pity move.
Then should she know how Love doth make me languish,
Distracting me 'twixt hope and dreadful fear;
Then should she know my care, my plaints, and anguish,
All which for her dear sake I meekly bear.

Oft did I hear our eyes the passage were
By which Love entered to assail our hearts;
Therefore I guarded them, and, void of fear,
Neglected the defence of other parts.
Love, knowing this, the usual way forsook,
And, seeking, found a by-way by mine Ear;
At which he ent'ring, my heart prisoner took,
And unto thee, sweet Philomel, did bear.
Yet let my heart thy heart to pity move,
Whose pain is great, although small fault appear:
First it lies bound in fett'ring chains of love,
Then each day it is racked with hope and fear;

TO AN IDEAL OBJECT .

Though far away, I still shall see thee here,
Shall see thy eyes so deep, thy modest mien,
And hear that fairy laughter, which yestreen
Fell like sweet music on my spell-bound ear.

Though far away, in truth thou dwell'st as near
As wert thou daily, hourly to be seen,
Nor of thy truthfulness have I a fear,
What is with thee stands fast and shows serene.

Would thou wert real, creature of my brain!
Thy voice and laughter, and those deep, still eyes,
And I of loneliness might not complain;

If thou wert dead, O love, — if thou wert dead, —
How could one summer sunset dare to gleam
Above the ripples of the rosied stream?
How could one rose blush into mocking red?
If death's wreath whitened round thy dear dark head
No leaf of bay would lure my glance again:
For thou art as the fountain of my strain,
Whence buoyant waters towards the plains are led.

If thou wert gone, O love, — if thou wert gone, —
How could the thoughtless heartless sun shine on!
How could the same chant fill the sea's dull soul

On lovers loving in the silent night
The holy spirit of spotless God descends
And with their souls magnificently blends,
Till as their lips touch lo! their souls are white,
And as their eyes meet lo! those eyes are bright
With the eternal power God's spirit sends:
Far-off from home, apart from fame or friends,
They rest in God's unutterable light.

O love, we were unspeakably alone
With Love and God: thou wast alone with me,
And I with God who claimed us for his own,
And thou with God, and I alone with thee, —

Through pain we reach a lonely region fair
With the immortal mountain-winds of God,
Whereunto winds a weird untravelled road,
Thrilled by the high song of the mountain-air.
The altar of our faithful love is there
On the sheer hill-side trackless and untrod;
By power of earnest endless passion shod
Our feet have climbed the rocks and glaciers bare.

And now we stand together on the height
And sweeter than the singing of the vale
Is this my harp-string that the keen airs smite,
And sweeter art thou, rose, though thou art pale

Because thou art a saint, and clothed in white,
Thou art to me the sweetest of all flowers,
And far more fragrant are thy beauty's bowers
Than those that flaunt their bloom to daily sight.
Love is a small thing, when the love is light, —
But the great love that mocketh mortal hours
And sings the clearer when the storm-cloud lowers,
Endures beyond earth's day, beyond death's night.

Because thou art a saint, thou art a flower,
And thou art woman in that thou art saint,
And angel in thy womanhood's pure power,

I.

How sweet is our youth, when Love lights up each feature,
And sweet are the spring-birds that sing in each grove,
And sweet are the roses when blooming — but sweeter
The shamrock presented by hands that we love
Oh, bright's the plant at close of even,
When it is with smile approving,
By some blushing maiden given

Iltani has sent me a tiny rose,
Tinier than her little ear
Which is so small, so small
That I fear my great love can never,
Never all be poured into it!
Iltani has sent me a rose,
A little, little rose,
Yet so great has she made it seem to me
By the magic of her graciousness,
That it shuts out heaven and earth,
It shuts out everything to me
But the face of Iltani,
The lovely, lovely face of Iltani,
Which by the magic of her graciousness,
She has imprinted on the heart of the rose she sent me.