love poetry

To mine us antient as louing friend, Mr Peter Ferriman

O F my heart's Heau'n through loue (though Hel through sin)
Peter thou keepst the keyes; yet art lockt in

To the right noble Lord, worthy of all loue and honor, the Lord Vicount Lisle

Deere Lord, while I doe muse to finde out words
To suite thy worth, I finde the labour great;
For still so much true Worthines affoords
That fullest words are nothing so compleate
Faine would I do thee honor if I could,
For many deere respects; but ah, alas!
Small is the honor rimes both few and cold
Can giue thy vertues which all praise doth passe
Learning and armes, together with the Muse
(Which trinity of powers Artes heaun selt forth)

I Loue the life that Loue doth most mislike;
That is the life which is most like to Death:
On lifes Hart-strings when Death at last, shall strike
Soules Organs then do sound with sweetest breath!
The Discords of this Life annoy their Eares
Where but Faithes Concords onely sweetly sound:
From Discords Dangers rise: from Dangers, Feares
Which Three, these Three, the Soule, Minde, Body wound!
I would therefore, liue dead to such a life
With the Graue of most obscure estate:
So, dead, to liue as farre from State , as Strife ,

One great truth in life I've found,
— While journeying to the West —
The only folks we really wound
— Are those we love the best.

The man you thoroughly despise
— Can rouse your wrath, 'tis true;
Annoyance in your heart will rise
— At things mere strangers do.

But those are only passing ills;
— This rule all lives will prove;
The rankling wound which aches and thrills
— Is dealt by hands we love.

The choicest garb, the sweetest grace,
— Are oft to strangers shown;

In my absence, though so short,
You, Rosette, had changed your mind:
Learning your inconstancy,
I, another mistress find.
Never more shall charms so free
Gain ascendancy o'er me.
We shall see, oh light Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

While with tears I pine away,
Cursing separation drear;
You, who love by force of wont,
Took another for your dear.
Never vane all lightly hung,
To the wind more swiftly swung.
We shall see, oh vain Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

I

When you and I in the hills went Maying,
You and I in the bright May weather,
The birds, that sang on the boughs together,
There in the green of the woods, kept saying
All that my heart was saying low,
" I love you! love you! " soft and low, —
And did you know?
When you and I in the hills went Maying.

II

There where the brook on its rocks went winking,

The restless wind is tired, Willie,
Of singing among the leaves.
And longs to shriek in the shrouds, Willie,
Out where the mammoth cleaves.

The roving wind is rude, Willie,
And wanton with love of me,
It makes a sail of my gown, Willie,
To billow me out to sea.

But the crags are cruel steep, Willie,
And cold are the rocks below,
And lost I should be for aye, Willie,
Did my lover once let me go.

And the wind doth veer and change, Willie,
And wide is the world of sea,

Grieve not, my sister, that this heart returning
To its lov'd home, is welcomed there with sighs,
For it is sweet, when those we love are mourning,
To mix with theirs the waters of our eyes.

And it is sweet to mingle with their sorrow
The little comforts which we can bestow;
Rejoicing, if their wretchedness can borrow
From look of ours a sweetness out of woe.

When hearts we love are revelling in gladness,
Tho' far away we are content and blest;
But when they tremble to the breath of sadness,

Sing, little darling, sing,
And may thy song be everlasting!
Not all the learning wits and sages boast
Can equal the sweet burden of thy song; —
Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife; —
Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars; —
Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave
May threat to overwhelm.
The love of Jesus, —
Sweet, having this thou risest far above
All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.


Did He who blest
That infant band that crowded round His knee,

The flowers that bloom on the bosom of Earth,
Though sweet in their odour, and rich in their hue,
Are emblems too fleeting of beauty and worth,
For a gift of affection, dear Mary, to you.

For you I have chosen a bouquet of flowers,
That ne'er drank a dew-drop nor glow'd in the sun;
They were form'd as the solace of wearisome hours,
In a Convent's deep shade, by an innocent Nun.

Still in beauty will bloom this fair effort of Art,
When the offspring of Flora are blighted and dead;