romantic poems

O! what a thing is Love? who can define
Or liniament it out? Its strange to tell.
A Sparke of Spirit empearld pill like and fine
In't shugard pargings, crusted, and doth dwell
Within the heart, where thron'd, without Controle
It ruleth all the Inmates of the Soule.

It makes a poother in its Secret Sell
Mongst the affections: oh! it swells, its paind,
Like kirnells soked untill it breaks its Shell
Unless its object be obtained and gain'd.
Like Caskd wines jumbled breake the Caske, this Sparke

Come, let's adore the King of Love,
And King of Sufferings too;
For Love it was that brought Him down
And set Him here in woe.

Love drew Him from His Paradise,
Where flowers that fade not grow;
And planted Him in our poor dust,
Among us weeds below.

Here for a time this heavenly Plant
Fairly grew up and thrived;
Diffused its sweetness all about,
And all in sweetness lived.

But envious frosts and furious storms
So long, so fiercely chide;
This tender Flower at last bowed down,

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had another, and didn't love her;
Peter learned to read and spell,
And then he loved her very well.

Out of my door I step into
The country, all her scent and dew,
Nor travel there by a hard road,
Dusty and far from my abode.

The country washes to my door
Green miles on miles in soft uproar,
The thunder of the woods, and then
The backwash of green surf again.

Beyond the feverfew and stocks,
The guelder-rose and hollyhocks;
Outside my trellised porch a tree
Of lilac frames a sky for me.

A stretch of primrose and pale green
To hold the tender Hesper in;
Hesper that by the moon makes pale

1. Out amongst the flowers sweet, Lingers pretty Marguerite,
Sowing with her hands so white, Future blossoms, fair and bright.
And the sunbeams lovingly,
Kiss sweet Marguerite for me.
Kiss my little lady sweet,
Blue eyed gentle Marguerite!
2. When I say, " Oh Marguerite, All my heart is at your feet,
Turn it to a garden fair, See it blossom 'neath your care.
Till it yields for you alone,
Wond'rous fragrance all your own.
And its sweetest flowers shall grow,
For my Marguerite I know!

Vertue, whom we all obtain
With much labour, but more gain,
For your sake to dy would please,
Toyle and torments were but ease,
You direct men in pursuit
Of immortall sacred fruit,
Richer far then gold refin'd,
Soft as sleep, as parents kinde.
Great Alcides for your sake
Labours vast did undertake.
Leda's valiant twins made known
More your glories then their own;
Ajax and Achilles too
Only dy'd for love of you;
Ah! for you Atarna's pride ;
Hermias untimely dy'd .
But his name we will revive;

Only, sweet Love, afford me but thy heart,
Then close thine eyes within their ivory covers,
That they to me no beam of light impart,
Although they shine on all thy other lovers.
As for thy lip of ruby, cheek of rose,
Though I have kissed them oft with sweet content,
I am content that sweet content to lose;
If thy sweet Will will bar me, I assent.
Let me not touch thy hand, but through thy glove,
Nor let it be the pledge of kindness more;
Keep all thy beauties to thyself, sweet Love,

(A Quilt.)

One whose love will never end,
May this present, from a friend,
Bring to thee refreshing sleep,
While thy spirit angels keep.

Peaceful may thy slumbers be,
From the cares of time set free,
Till the dream of life is past —
Till we meet at home at last.

One sat within a hung and lighted room —
A little shape, with face between his wings,
And in the light made of all golden things
He seemed a warm and living rose abloom;
And one without sobbed in the night and gloom,
And all about him was a pilgrim's weed,
His little hands and cold he held for meed
Of his long waiting, sad as by a tomb:
He entered at the door, the other flew
Out at the casement — and with sudden day
The lamps burned faint, and he who came most new
Was fair, and he who went was wan and gray.

One little minute more, Maud,
— One little whisper more;
I have a word to speak, Maud,
— I never breathed before.
What can it be but love , Maud;
— And do I rightly guess
'Tis pleasant to your ear, Maud?
— O darling! tell me yes!

The burden of my heart, Maud,
— There's little need to tell;
There's little need to say, Maud,
— I've loved you long and well.
There's language in a sigh, Maud,
— One's meaning to express,
And yours — was it for me , Maud?
— O darling! tell me yes!