love poems

There is many a simple song one hears,
To an outworn tune, that starts the tears;
Not for itself—for the buried years.

Perchance 'twas heard in the days of youth,
When breath was buoyant and words were truth;
When joys were peddled at Life's gay booth.

Or maybe it sounded along a lane
Where She walked with you—and now again
You catch Love's cadence, Love's old sweet pain.

Or else it stole through a room where lay
A dear one dying, and seemed to say:
“Love and death, they shall pass away.”

'T IS past! the tuneless lethargy is o'er!
I fly from Dulness, and her mole-ey'd throng;
To Fancy, and to Love, I wake once more,
Once more, I wake to Rapture, and to Song;

Whence spring these transports of tumultuous bliss?
These sweet sensations whence, to Feeling true? —
They breathe, ambrosial, from my M ARY 's kiss;
They stream from her soft eyes of humid blue;

Dear maid! how oft, immerst in cheerless woe,
Close have I clasp'd thy visionary form;
How oft, has that ripe cheek's purpureal glow,

Since , first, soft Passion could this breast enflame,
Oh! Love ! I've own'd the rigor of thy rule;
Still to thy shrine, with bleeding heart, I came,
And Prudence pointed oft the am'rous fool;

'Tis past: — and ah! tho', with thy pow'r, are flown
Innum'rous pangs, that wrung my tortur'd soul,
Joy, too, is fled, sweet raptures all thy own,
That gild the chains of such severe controul.

Where, now, the fond concern? the blissful dream?
The glad surprize, that purpled o'er my cheek?

Tell me not, of joys in love,
I, who all its changes prove,
I, who all its load sustain,
Swear, by Jove,
The bliss is poison'd by the pain.
What tho' panting in your arms,
The virgin yield her blushing charms;
What tho' from her swimming eye,
Heavens raptures fly,
And magic heat each vein alarms;
What tho' from the soft embrace,
Sparks electric, fire the soul,
Mount from the bosom, to the face,
And as they roll,
All thoughts of mortal care efface;
Yet tell me not, of joys in love,

Time once at a synod agreed
To cure the abuses of love;
For Cupid had wrote such a creed
As none of the gods could approve.
But first, with Prometheus's leave,
A mortal he begg'd to create;
For as yet not a power could achieve
A conquest o'er love and o'er fate.

As Time in his travels had found
The various specifics of earth,
Experience, with years rolling round,
Had given their qualities birth.
This faithful associate he knew
Would cull every simple of use;
For Galen had taught where they grew,

O THERE is not a sharper dart
Can pierce the mourner's suffering heart,
Than when the friend we love and trust
Tramples that friendship into dust, —
Forgets the sacred, honour'd claim,
And proves it but an empty name!

I almost as a sister lov'd thee,
And thought that nothing could have mov'd thee!
But, like the dewdrops on a spray
That shrinks before the morning ray, —
Like the frail sunshine on the stream,
Thy friendship faded as a dream.

When sickness and when sorrow tried me,

SPOKEN AT NORWICH, IN THE CHARACTER OF MRS. DEBORAH WOODCOCK, IN " LOVE IN A VILLAGE . "

After the dangers of a long probation,
When Sibyl like, she's skill'd in penetration;
When she has conquer'd each unruly passion,
And rides above the rocks that others dash on;
When deeply mellow'd with reserve and rigour;
When decent gravity adorns her figure,
Why an old maid, I wish the wise would tell us,
Should be the standing jest of flirts and fellows?

In maxims sage, in eloquence how clever!

The bibliophile who loves his margins wide —
Who grudges e'en to type an inch or two —
Most strangely has not ever stepped aside
To read with glee a virgin blank-book through.

SPOKEN AT SCARBOROUGH

Where is this author? — bid the wretch appear,
Let him come in, and wait for judgment — here.
This awful jury, all impatient, wait; —
Let him come in, I say, and meet his fate!
Strange, very strange, if such a piece succeeds!
(Punish the culprit for his vile misdeeds)
Know ye to-night, " that his presumptuous works,
Have turn'd good Christians into — Heathen Turks?
And if the genius an't corrected soon,
In his next trip, he'll mount us to the moon.

Love is begot 'twixt idlenesse and lust;
The mettle that's not us'd, can't chuse but rust.
These Codpiece loves but phancies are at best,
They nere show well, if not in colours drest.