love poetry

Strephon I saw, and started at the sight,
And interchangeably looked red and white;
I felt my blood run swiftly to my heart,
And a chill trembling seize each outward part:
My breath grew short, my pulse did quicker beat,
My heart did heave, as it would change its seat:
A faint cold sweat o'er all my body spread,
A giddy megrim wheel'd about my head:
When for the reason of this change I sought,
I found my eyes had all the mischief wrought;
For they my sort to Strephon had betray'd,
And my weak heart his willing victim made:

When the Rose came I loved the Rose,
And thought of none beside,
Forgetting all the other flowers,
And all the others died;
And morn and noon, and sun and showers,
And all things loved the Rose,
Who only half returned my love,
Blooming alike for those.

I was the rival of a score
Of loves on gaudy wing,
The nightingale I would implore
For pity not to sing;
Each called her his; still I was glad
To wait or take my part;
I loved the Rose — who might have had
The fairest lily's heart.

The oaks are crooning in glee to-night,
The hour is so warm and fine;
The breeze is soft and the clouds are white
And stars in the blue sky shine.
The cricket chirrups, and love-birds peep,
And waking dreams beguile;
The lovely night is too fair for sleep,
So the wind flowers wake and smile.
The radiant moon with a stencil clear,
Top-tinsels each tuft with gold,
And shy, brown shadows creep out to hear
The tales of lovers oft told.
The oaks are beating with gentle strike
Slow time with each fringed bough;

He bade me " Be happy, " he whisper'd " Forget me; "
— — He vow'd my affection was cherish'd in vain.
" Be happy! " " Forget me! " I would, if he'd let me —
— — Why will he keep coming to say so again?

He came — it was not the first time, by a dozen —
— — To take, as he said, " an eternal adieu; "
He went, and, for comfort, I turn'd to — my cousin,
— — When back stalk'd the torment his vows to renew.

" You must love me no longer! " he said but this morning.

Thou new-born Rose, emerging from the dew,
Like Aphrodite, when the lovely bather
Blush'd from the sea, how fair thou art to view,
And fragrant to the smell! The Almighty Father
Implanted thee, that men of every hue,
Even a momentary joy might gather;
And shall he save one people, and pursue
Others to endless agony? O rather
Let me believe in thee, thou holy Rose,
Who dost alike thy lips of love unclose,
Be thy abode by saint or savage trod.
Thou art the priest whose sermons soothe our woes,

Blow, O wind!
Blow unto the maiden's cheek!
The flowers that bloom in gardens
Are the lovely color we seek.

The days of love are early,
The years of love are late;
The spirit lurks within, O soul
That shuts no human gate!

Kiss my cheek, fair maiden —
I'll say farewell to thee;
My heart is deeply laden
With facts from reality.

(Old Melibee) that hast the hearts of all,
Because thy love is likewise generall:
Not Time alone, but thy deare Countries cares
Which far exceed thy yeares, have chang'd thy haires
To white: then let thy Silver age thee fold
In more contents, then did thy age of gold.

Not gifts of gold or costly gems,
But that which is all price above,
The festal marriage-day provides, —
Mercies to cheer and hearts to love.

How many sunny years have passed!
And each has left its radiant line;
The fifty long ago were told,
And now, behold, 'tis fifty-nine.

God of the loving, God of love,
Whose favor blessed the earlier days,
Shine on the years that yet remain,
While silver hairs proclaim thy praise.

Laideur et Beaute

Too great her beauty! 'tis o'erwhelming;
Beneath that mask there's such dissembling:
Yes, I would have her ugly — quite —
I'd have her — yes, a perfect fright
Love her I must in beauty's bloom —
O Heaven, thy wondrous gift resume!
Even from below assistance would I claim;
So she were ugly, and my love the same

Lo! Satan at the word I see —
The sire of ugliness is he:
" Come, come, " he cries, " I'll hideous make her;
Thy fiercest rivals shall forsake her:

OR, THE PLANING OF THE VINE IN GAUL .

Brennus

" What, ho! brave Gauls, " said Brennus once, of old,
" This day a festival in triumph hold!
The fields of Rome my exploits well repay:
I've brought a cutting from their vines away
Let's link together — never more to part,
Thanks to the vine — Love, Honor, Glory, Art!

" Debarred ourselves of its all-potent juice,
We conquered Rome that we might learn its use:
The budding tendrils with their leaves must now