poems about love

BE AN INCENTIVE TO VIRTUE ?

" All praise is foreign, but of true desert,
Plays round the head, but comes not near the heart; "
Yet may a maid for love of praise contend,
Though Pleasure's votary, not less Virtue's friend.
May not she strive around her sacred shrine
The wreath of pleasure gaily to entwine?
To strew the path with many a fragrant flower,
And sweetly decorate the playful hour?
To tempt e'en Time to loiter on his way,
And feel a wish to lengthen out the day?

Who could a Fancy love? who Fancy have.
None e're love wit, whom nature no wit gave.
Some say my Fancy's rich, you'l love it sure;
My Fancy's you, can you your self endure?
Most fancy gold, and I a golden skin:
Who's gold without, is she not rich within?
I from thy skin did make the break of day;
The Moon made pale you took her light away.
To yellow skin the Indies I'd confine;
Give every part the riches of a Mine,
Scorn but my fancy, thou again art poor;
Horses with Yellows shall be valued more.

Ah , what is't to me that the grasshopper sings!
Or what, that the meadows are fair!
That (like little flow'rets, if mounted on wings,)
The butterflies flaunt it in air!
Ye birds, I'll no longer attend to a lay;
Your haunts in the forest resign;
Shall you, with your true loves, be happy all day,
Whilst I am divided from mine?

Where woodbines and willows inclin'd to unite,
We twisted a blooming alcove;
And oft has my Damon, with smiles of delight,
Declar'd it the Mantle of Love.

To answer Humours who four Elements chose,
Had need the fift, their quarrels to compose.
Sure it is Love doth all together knit;
Love made the world, and Love preserveth it.
Things diff'rent are, but nothing contrary is,
But as intended, or it is remisse.
Ah! why should Med'ciners in their art agree,
Since Natures self's but Contrariety?

I HEARD Love's voice thrill all the waiting Night,
And I arose and followed where he led:
Then Morning mocked me with revealing light —
The great bright world was empty — Love was dead.

When shall I join the blessed company
Of those this barren world to me denies?
When shall I wake to the new day's surprise,
Beyond the murmur of death's moaning sea,
In that glad home where my best loved ones be;
And know that I have found my Paradise,
Finding again the love that never dies
The heart's dear welcome, biding there for me?

I wait alone upon life's wind-swept beach —
The waves are high — the sea is wild and wide —
Yet Death, bold pilot, all their wrath shall dare,

I.

I SHARE your heart with her, its former Queen,
Who taught your lips the song of love to sing —
To whose high altar you were wont to bring
Such laurels as no Fair since Time hath been
Has decked her brow with. Joy was there and teen,
And reverence, as for some most sacred thing
Set high in Heaven for all men's worshipping;
Such laurels gathers no man twice, I ween.

Your second love, ungarlanded, uncrowned —
Fit for life's daily uses, let us say —
Whose lips have never thrilled you with sweet sound,

I.

A LOFT in air the shrill lark sings,
The swallow shakes her twitt'ring wings,
The Morn unveils her radiant eyes,
And opes the portal of the skies,
Arise, my love, my Laura, rise.

II.

The breathing field is rich with sweets,
The eye, the ear, new transport meets,
The still wind, balmy-blowing, sighs,
And Echo sounds, in soft replies,
Arise, my love, my Laura, rise.

III.

The Spring forbids her buds to break,

(Variant)

Song in a play — " Go not to the Wechernyci, Hritz " )

" Go not, I pray thee, to the dance, Hritz!
For there await thee daughters of the witch.

" They burn the straw beneath the bubbling roots —
They'll take your life just when their wish it suits.

" That one with black, black eyes — most potent witch is she;
She knows all roots that grow by river or by tree.

" She knows what each distils — and she loves you!

In Summer, when the days are long,
The roses and the lilies talk —
Beneath the trees young lovers walk,
And glad birds coo their wooing song.

In Autumn, when the days are brief,
Roses and lilies turn to dust —
Lovers grow old, as all men must,
And birds shun trees that have no leaf.

Then, youth, be glad, in love's brief day!
Pluck life's best blossom while you can —
Time has his will of every man —
From leafless hearts love turns away.