love poetry

Oh, Man can seek the downward glance,
And each kind word — affection's spell —
Eye, voice, its value can enhance;
For eye may speak, and tongue can tell.

But Woman's love, it waits the while
To echo to another's tone,
To linger on another's smile,
Ere dare to answer with its own.

O, ONE I need to love me,
— And one to understand,
And one to soar above me,
— And one to clasp my hand,

And one to make me slumber,
— And one to bid me strive,
But seven's the sacred number
— That keeps the soul alive.

And first and last of seven,
— And all the world and more,
Is she I need in Heaven,
— And may not need before.

'T IS well to wake the theme of love
When chords of wild ecstatic fire
Fling from the harp, and amply prove
The soul as joyous as the lyre.

Such theme is blissful when the heart
Warms with the precious name we pour;
When our deep pulses glow and start
Before the idol we adore.

Sing ye, whose doating eyes behold,
Whose ears can drink the dear one's tone.
Whose hands may press, whose arms may fold,
The prized, the beautiful, thine own.

But, should the ardent hopes of youth

I LOVED her when she looked from me,
And hid her stifled sighs:
I loved her too when she did smile
With shy and downcast eyes,
The light within them rounding " like
The young moon in its rise. "

I loved her! — Dost thou love no more,
Now she from thee is flown,
To some far distant — distant shore,
Unfetter'd, and alone?
Peace, peace! I know her: She will come

The might of one fair face sublimes my love,
For it hath weaned my heart from low desires;
Nor death I need, nor purgatorial fires:
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above,
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve;
For O, how good, how beautiful, must be
The God that made so good a thing as thee,
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove!
Forgive me if I cannot turn away
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven,
For they are guiding stars, benignly given
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way;

Talk not to me of love!
 The deer that dies
Knows more of love than I,
 Who seek the skies.
Strive not to bind my soul
 With chains of clay!
I scorn thy poor control;
 Away,—Away!

Now, wherefore dost thou weave
 Thy falsehoods strange?
Sad words may make me grieve,
 But never change.
A snake sleeps in thine eye;
 It stirs thine heart:
Why dost thou seem to sigh?
 Depart,—Depart!

Thy dreams, when Fortune flew,
 Did elsewhere range:
But Love is always true,

I.

And did the holy and the just,
The Sovereign of the skies,
Stoop down to wretchedness and dust,
That guilty worms might rise?

II.

Yes, the Redeemer left his throne,
His radiant throne on high,
(Surprizing mercy! love unknown!)
To suffer, bleed and die.

III.

He took the dying traitor's place,
And suffer'd in his stead;
For man, (O miracle of grace!)
For man the Saviour bled!

IV.

Dear Lord, what heavenly wonders dwell
In thy atoning blood?

The cottage is here, as of old I remember;
The pathway is worn, as it ever hath been:
On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember;
But,—where is Maureen?

The same pleasant prospect still shineth before me,—
The river—the mountain—the valley of green,
And Heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me!
But,—where is Maureen?

Lost! Lost!—Like a dream that hath come and departed,
(Ah, why are the loved and lost ever seen?)
She hath fallen,—hath flown, with a lover false-hearted;
So, mourn for Maureen!

Kill the love that winds around thee,
With its snake-like death-like twine!
Where's the guardian faith that bound thee?
Where are all thy gifts divine?
Where is wisdom? Where is wine?
Where's the sad dark truth of story?
Where the Muse's mighty line?
Where the fame that burned before thee?

What is love, but life deformed
From its grand original aim?
Hero into slave transformed?
Worlds lost at a single game?
Whose the peril — whose the shame,
Should'st thou die in Love's fond slavery?

What song doth the cricket sing?
What news doth the swallow bring?
What doth laughing boyhood tell?
What calls out the marriage bell?
What say all? — Love and Mirth!
In the air, and in the earth.
Very, very soft and merry
Is the natural song of Earth.

Mark the Morn, when first she springs
Upwards on her golden wings;
Hark, to the soaring soaring lark!
And the echoing forests, — hark!
What say they? — Love and Mirth, &c.

With the leaves the apples wrestle;
In the grass the daisies nestle;