romantic poems

Love, I renounce thy tyrant sway,
— I mock thy fascinating art,
Mine, be the calm unruffled day,
— That brings no torment to the heart;
The tranquil mind, the noiseless scene,
Where Fancy, with enchanting mien,
Shall in her right-hand lead along
The graceful patroness of Song ;
Where Harmony shall softly fling
Her light tones o'er the dulcet string;
And with her magic Lyre compose
Each pang that throbs, each pulse that glows;
Till her resistless strains dispense,
The balm of blest Indifference.

In the beginning was Love
A field from the grey unscaled
A garden out of the field
And out of the garden, Love.

Like to a hind is Love
He ribs the wolds with a share
Earth's gold to the garner to bear
To thresh from the garner, Love.

Like to a builder is Love
He rends the floors of the earth
To light, like a meteor's birth
— A perilous pinnacle, Love.

Day with its sweats is Love,
Love with its dews is sleep,
Love is the nights that creep
And the sun that awakes is Love.

When thou to my true-love com'st
Greet her from me kindly;
When she asks thee how I fare?
Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.

When she asks, "What! Is he sick?"
Say, dead!--and when for sorrow
She begins to sob and cry,
Say, I come to-morrow.

Song

1

On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her cov'ring, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sighed alone;
From the cheerless dawn of morning,
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus she made her moan:
" Hope is banished,
Joys are vanished,
Damon my beloved is gone!

2

Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth, and such a lover;

The heliotrope's fragrant breath —
The subtle sweet of jasmine on the evening air —
The flowery mead, all radiant
With sympathetic pleasure
From the glowing kiss with which
The God of Day salutes its lovely face —
The whispering, snowy surf, wherewith
Old Ocean in his kindliest mood
Murmurs soft secrets to the willing sands —
The mingled joy and anguish thrilling us
In the weird plaints of Schubert —
Great Rossini's heaven-born strains —
All graceful, lovely things,
Lifting my soul to beatific state, —

Love ran with me, then walk'd, then sate,
Then said " Come, come! it grows too late: "
And then he would have gone . . but . . no . .
You caught his eye; he could not go.

You see the worst of love, but not the best,
Nor will you know him till he comes your guest.
Tho' yearly drops some feather from his sides,
In the heart's temple his pure torch abides.

Because the moonlight deceives
Therefore I love it.

Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!
See where it casts the shadow of that tree
Far out upon the grass. And every gust
Of light night wind comes laden with the scent
Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:
Night-scented stocks, and four o'clocks, and that
Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,
The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.
It seems as though the garden which you love
Were like a swinging censer, its incense
Floating before us as a reverent act
To sanctify and bless our night of love.

Why from the danger did mine eyes not start, —
Why not become even blind, — ere through my sight
Within my soul thou ever couldst alight
To say: " Dost thou not hear me in thy heart?"
New torment then, the old torment's counterpart,
Filled me at once with such a sore affright,
That, Lady, lady, (I said,) destroy not quite
Mine eyes and me! O help us where thou art!
Thou hast so left mine eyes, that Love is fain —
Even Love himself — with pity uncontroll'd
To bend above them, weeping for their loss: