love poems

'T IS true — that me , with roses crown'd,
The tear of Sympathy has found,
And been at once obey'd;
That Pleasure's light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk — when pale Misfortune's hour
Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true — that in the moral grief ,
I never ask'd or wish'd relief,
Nor envy'd playful ease:
But Love the miracle has wrought,
And Love the feeling bosom taught,
How dearly Pain can please!

M Y youthful heart a willing slave
To Love's enchanting bloom I gave.
But Winter 's come — 'tis Nature's frost ,
The leaves and germs of Spring are lost.

Again, Promethean Love, inspire
The genial flame of young desire;
And thou shalt make the parting flower,
Shame with its hue the Vernal bower.

A RE these propitious Hymen's fruits?
Must Beauty feel the shafts of Death?
When Spring the tender blossom shoots,
Why darts the South his tainted breath?

Extinguish'd is the torch of Love —
Near the cold urn these ashes fill:
In anguish mourns the Cyprian Dove,
And Flora's tears their odour spill.

The youthful Brides are struck with fear,
When Love has crown'd the nuptial bed;
In Stella's fate their own they hear,
And willows in the wreath are spread.

But let them smile, and be secure!

AND thus can storms of thine reprove,
Oh, God of Peace, of Hope, and Love!
Can this be life, that so can fade?
Breath — of the vernal dews afraid!
'Twas yesterday that Stella's bloom
Dispell'd all images of gloom,
With spirits of the new-born day,
And fearless of the night's decay;
That Nature, innocent of guile,
Was crown'd with Beauty's radiant smile,
With blushes that surpass'd the rose
When first its bright vermillion glows:
When Love prepar'd the nuptial bower,
And bless'd the consecrated hour.

Age has been call'd " a Vale of Years ; "
Life , at the best, a Vale of Tears ;
Love , as December nights advance,
At least has parted with romance;
But St. L — — — t a charm has found
That Spring has to the Winter bound:
Upon his furrow'd cheek a tear
No more has clos'd the passing year.
For this, her gift — a Fairy's boon —
Is my commission from the Moon;
Prophetic is the potent spell —
I am its Wizard, and foretell :
The Regent , by an Act of State,

TO THE INKSTAND OF THE ANGEL-MOTHER, REPRESENTED BY TWO LOVED SISTERS TO ME .

 D EAR implement of art—combin'd
With spirit of a gifted mind,
When she, whose hand is now at rest,
Thee to its glowing service prest!
I cherish thee—and bless the pen,
Which calls thee into life again.
 Oh! could I emulate her thought!
Could the rich mine's pure vein be caught!
Her Genius only I'd implore,
And court the polish'd Muse no more.
To Nature's fountain ever trust,
And lay the Pedant in the dust.—

The wind blows out of the west,
The wind is merry and free;
It brings fair weather for us, love,
Fair weather for thee and me.

The sun shines out of the east,
And dances over the sea;
The world's aglitter for us, love,
Aglitter for thee and me.

And now the world's a-dusk,
The nest unstirred on the tree;
The fair moon hangs at its full, love,
And shineth for thee and me.

Toss not my soul, O Love, 'twixt hope and fear.
Show me some ground where I may firmly stand
Or surely fall; I care not which appear,
So one will close me in a certain band.

Take me, Assurance, to thy blissful hold,
Or thou, Despair, unto thy darkest cell.
Each hath full rest, the one in joys enrolled,
Th'other, in that he fears no more, is well.

Ye captive souls of blindfold Cyprian's boat,
Mark with advice in what estate ye stand:
Your boatman never whistles merry note,
And Folly keeping stern, still puts from land,
And makes a sport to toss you to and fro
Twixt sighing winds and surging waves of woe.

On Beauty's rock she runs you at her will,
And holds you in suspense twixt hope and fear,
Where dying oft, yet are you living still,
But such a life as death much better were.
Be therefore circumspect, and follow me,

Thou art too hard for me in Love:
There is no dealing with thee in that Art:
That is thy Masterpiece I see.
When I contrive and plot to prove
Something that may be conquest on my part
Thou still, O Lord, outstrippest me.

Sometimes, when as I wash, I say
And shrewdly, as I think, Lord wash my soul
More spotted than my flesh can be.
But then there comes into my way
Thy ancient baptism, which when I was foul
And knew it not, yet cleansed me.

I took a time when thou didst sleep,