love poetry

Soft he sleeps, where floweth the winding river:
Winds blow light; they dare not awake the sleeper, —
One so young and lovely, so full of beauty,
Grandeur, and glory.

Soft he sleeps, a child on his cross reposing, —
Smiles in peace, unknowing of future sorrows;
Bright and pure, as spirit of life, — as rose-bud,
Fresh in his beauty.

Yet that look reveals, in its pensive sweetness,
Deep and holy love, that will after lead him
Forth to heal and save, and to higher being
Kindly allure us.

I asked sweet love,
Where we should meet,
And greet,
Secure from slips?
On earth beneath, in heaven above?
He answer'd quick with quivering wings,
That perfumed zephyrs stirr'd around,
All crisp with spray from springs
Of tears,
Deep laid in rapture's heart profound,
Long gathered in immemorial years: —
" We'll meet, sir, on your lady's lips. "

Faintly breathes the maiden's song
Through the twilight grove;
Softly sweet it steals along; —
'T is the song of love.

Evening slumbers hushed and still;
Mute the hum of day:
Only winds the gurgling rill
Under flowers away.

Whispered voices echo far
Through the shadowy vale;
Glimmers by a twinkling star
Dian's crescent pale.

Fade in darkness bush and tree:
Rock and wood grow dim:
Wide o'er plain and silent sea
Wavering phantoms swim.

Still the maiden's murmured song

The snow is gone;
The waters run,
Through valley rushing,
From cavern gushing,
And foam along
In light and song.

The sky is blue;
The Spring is new;
The buds are swelling;
The stag is belling;
The lark and dove
Bring life and love.

The woods are green;
In emerald sheen
The grass is springing;
The vales are ringing
With hound and horn:
Young May is born!

Light the lamp of love, —
Light it with a fire
Falling from above,
Sparkling with desire.
When the flame is bright,
Place it in the bower
Where true hearts delight
To pass the evening hour:
It will softly shine
Through the mantling leaves,
Which the Graces twine,
And affection weaves, —
Weaves into a chain,
With the smile of bliss,
Melting looks that banish pain,
And pure enjoyment's honeyed kiss.

See! how bright it gleams,
Like the evening star, —
How its mellow beams

Farewell, glens and flowing rivers,
Dark brown moors and mountains blue,
Heath-clad cots and broomy valleys,
Scenes of youth and love, adieu!
Doomed to wander, doomed to sorrow,
All I love I leave with you.

O'er the grave that wraps my father
Oft I've shed the silent tear,
But the parting wi' my mother,
My lorn heart can never bear.
Oh! our home was pure and holy,
Oh! our love was all sincere.

Gazing on the humble shieling,
List'ning to the gurgling rill,
Watching every cloudy shadow

" Oh! whaur gat ye that pearly brow,
An' whaur gat ye that rosy mou',
An' whaur gat ye thae een sae blue,
That play sic pranks wi' mine, jo? "
" The ne'er a pearl there's on my brow,
The ne'er a rose blaws on my mou',
My een ye canna ken their hue,
They ne'er were raised to thine, jo. "

" Ae glance, ae sparkling glance was mine,
An' Hope has dwalt wi' me sinsyne;
Then let these stars in mercy shine
On him wha worships thee, jo. "
" Seek stars in heaven, for there they shine,

I know as well as you she is not fair,
Nor hath she sparkling eyes, or curled hair;
Nor can she brag of virtue or of truth,
Or anything about her, save her youth.
She is woman too, and to no end
I know, I verses write and letters send;
And nought I do can to compassion move her;
All this I know, yet cannot choose but love her.
Yet am not blind, as you and others be,
Who think and swear they little Cupid see
Play in their mistress' eyes, and that there dwell
Roses on cheeks, and that her breasts excel

Alane I wander, alane I pine,
Whaur nane can hear, an' whaur nane can see,
To sigh ower the days o' auld lang syne,
Wi' brimfou' bosom an' tearfu' ee.
There's nane to feel or to care for me,
There's nane to ken the wanderer noo,
Wha roamed these mountains in youthfu' glee,
But climbs them noo wi' a careworn broo.

For hopeless love did I leave my hame,
For hopeless love did I lang to dee;
My love, my langin' are still the same,
But my dear Mary, — O whaur is she!
And what are thae changeless hills to me,

A Lion to a Woodcutter:
" Your daughter, may I marry her? "
The father, loath and yet suspecting
He'd suffer violence by rejecting,
Agreed by contract with the clause
To draw his teeth and cut his claws —
To which the Lion gave assent
(Love blinding him to the intent).
When next the Beast a-wooing came,
As harmless as a cat and tame,
The Woodcutter he seized an axe
And gave him sundry sudden whacks.

MORAL

A lover, who to win a wife
Surrenders all he's got in life,