love poems

'Tis 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!

Sweet Innocent! what Angel's hand shall guide
Those tempting beauties, that will soon inflame
The amorous Libertine to vice and shame,
Polluting what he loves — the maiden's pride —
With arts, or gifts, that subtle counsels hide,
And rebel passions, that ascendant claim;
Which nothing but the sad reverse can tame
Of infamy — to penitence allied? —
Beware of Man! till Honour gives the word
Of ripe assent, improv'd by Love's delay; —
The word, that choice and sympathy have bound

To thee, Sennuccio! fearless I can paint
The habit of a life that shuns repose:
My heart with its accustom'd passion glows; —
'Tis Laura's yet; — nor strong my hopes, nor faint,
But varied ever — as that lovely Saint
In light or shade my fond attachment throws.
Her delicacy's temper'd sweetness knows
The charm which no mis-construing thought can taint;
Which blames, and yet approves: — to-day , the soft
Endearments reign — the Loves their influence breathe;
To morrow , distant and reserv'd her air —

So glides along the wanton Brook
With gentle pace into the Mayne,
Courting the bankes with amorous look
Hee never meanes to see againe:
And so doth Fortune use to Smile
Upon the short-liv'd Favourites face,
Whose swelling hopes shee will beguile,
And allwayes casts him in her race:
And so doth the fantastick Boy,
The God of the Illmanag'd flames,
Who ne're kept word in promis'd Joy
To Lover, nor to loving dames.
Soe all alike will constant prove,
Both Fortune, running-streames, and Love.

" To suffer grief is to be strong,
And to be strong is beautiful and rare " — —
'Twas in thy court, O Love, I learned it there,
This sad sweet song!

No one man dwells thy ways among,
Who shall not learn thy thousand ways of grief
Or how wild fears succeed each poor relief
In dark'ning throng:

There too a man may learn to put away

The crowned summit of his heart's desire;
But O, the bitter burning of love's fire —
Its bitterer ashes grey!

A SONG .

Beneath the myrtle's secret shade,
When Delia blest my eyes;
At first I view'd the lovely maid
In silent soft surprise.
With trembling voice and anxious mind
I softly whisper'd love;
She blush'd a smile so sweetly kind,
Did all my fears remove.
Her lovely yielding form I prest,
Sweet maddening kisses stole;
And soon her swimming eyes confest
The wishes of her soul:
In wild tumultuous bliss, I cry,
O Delia, now be kind!
She press'd me close, and with a sigh,
To melting joys resign'd.

On a flower in a forest,
A lily-bosom'd flower,
(Where never windy tempest
Came, nor ever any shower) —
A golden hour of birthtide,
(The sky was blue, so blue!)
Left me lying 'mid a songtide
Of birds of every hue.

Upon the white flower swaying
I laughed and sang in glee,
Till the thrushes long delaying
Sang back deliciously;
And the dear white cloudlets sleeping
Up in the blue, blue sky,
Seem'd downy cherubs peeping
Between the pine boughs high.

A little wind came blowing

O ye who pass along the way
All joyous, where with grief I pine,
In pity pause awhile and say,
Was ever sorrow like to mine?

See, hanging here before mine eyes,
This Body bloodless, bruised and torn —
Alas, it is my Son who dies
Of love deserving, not of scorn.

For know, this weak and dying Man
Is Son of him who made the earth;
And me, before the world began,
He chose to give him human birth.

He is my God; and since that night
When first I saw his infant grace,

Though they say thy lips have spoken
Vows I may not image broken:
Though thy happy bosom panting
Outran all thy words were granting:
Though thy sweet lips, passion-parted,
At their own confession started —
Yet I swear by all above thee
Past eternity to love thee.

Yet — oh yet — while still the morning
Views thee wreathed in Bride's adorning:
Ere the vows, his love to cherish
On the beating echoes perish:
Ere the day's impassion'd fleetness
To another yields thy sweetness:-

" Memorare": through the ages,
Lighting saint and sinner low,
Touching heroes, poets, sages,
With a deeper spirit-glow,
Comes the prayer of Mary's Bernard,
Potent now, as long ago,
When it rose like incense heavenward
From the groves of dark Citeaux.
" Memorare, O Maria,"
That it never hath been known
Earthly pleading, " Mater pia,"
Rose unheeded to thy throne:
Hear us then, who kneel before thee
With a love that fain would grow
To the love that Bernard bore thee,
In the cloisters of Citeaux.