romantic poems

Nature never made
A heart all marble; but, in 'ts fissures, sows
The wild flower Love; from whose rich seeds spring forth
A world of mercies and sweet charities.

Look , where she stands! Hath the magician Love
Touched her to stone? No, no: she breathes, she moves!
Beauty sits bravely in her glittering eye;
And passion stains her cheek. What thoughts are these,
Unfolding like rose flowers at dawn of day?—
Methinks she sees the sunny Future lie
Basking before her.

Dost thou not love the golden antique time,
When knights and heroes, for a lady's love,
Would spear the dragon?
Or when Boccaccio's dames, now long ago,
Lay laughing on the grass, hearing and telling
Wild love adventures, witty merry tales,
That made the heart leap high. And yet, even they
Would sadden amidst their flowers, when that some story
(Like a rose unfolded) was betrayed, which shewed
What Love indeed was made of,—when the world—
Chance—falsehood—danger tried its truth till death,
And proved its hues unaltered.

I LOVE this light:
'Tis the old age of Day, methinks; or haply
The infancy of Night: pleasant it is.
Shall we be dreaming—Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart
Speaks, and the woods are still.

Love follows not desert, but accident.
We love—because we love: I know no more.
'Tis not great thoughts, nor noble qualities,
Nor conduct pure compel it. These rather challenge
Our deep respect than Love: That sweet emotion
Owes to our tender hearts its gentle force.
And scorns all meaner reason.

In Love's garden next I stood
Mid the myrtle's green increase,
Where great roses red as blood
Dreamed their passion into peace.
From his mansion marvellous
Made of amorous apple-boughs, —
Whose soft slow blush-tinted showers
Knolled the noiseless-footed hours, —
Forth came Love, a shepherd lad,
Star-eyed, ruddy-limbed, unclad,
Bringing flower-wine of his valleys
In a sorrow-charming chalice,
Spiced with myrrh and magic root.
Straight I drank: the while his flute

When native virtue, love of martial fame,
Were the rich trophies of each glorious name;
When noble daring bade perfidious France
Draw the keen blade, or " couch the quiv'ring lance; "
Then, how averse to foreign modes and arts,
Those treach'rous trifles that unman our hearts!
They scorn'd her motley manners with disdain,
And found, in Reason's scale, her fopp'ries vain:
Then each accomplish'd Dame resplendent shone
In charms unrivall'd, charms that were her own;
While the interior beauties of her mind,

In vain the youth his utmost art essay'd,
Persuasion mov'd not, nor soft pity sway'd;
But ere he went, his last respect to shew,
Seven Ermine skins, that rival'd Greenland's snow,
With five fair Swans, he as a tribute gave,
And Seals fresh bleeding from the briny wave,
With marble lamps, and oil of curious taste,
To deck her board, and crown the rich repast:
With joy resin'd, this gift the nymph receiv'd,
Sweet proof of love, from him in whom she liv'd;
Then, trembling, wish'd the parting pang was o'er,

Love , powerful love, impatient of controul,
Softens the heart, and animates the soul;
That love refin'd that can the magic boast
Of warmth unchang'd amidst eternal frost:
Witness, fair Ajutt, pride of icy plains,
Where darkness half the year triumphant reigns,
And faithful gen'rous Anningait, the youth,
By love taught softness, by that softness truth:
Both flourish'd sweet on Greenland's rigid coast,
Pure as its snow, and constant as its frost;
No polish'd arts of specious vice they knew,

Do you design that verse of mine
Should bring repute to you,
Or did you deem by such a scheme
To be a poet too?

Well, I suppose, the pearly rows
'Twixt Aegle's lips that glow,
Though purchased bone, she calls her own,
And thinks them truly so.

Lycoris, too, of mulberry hue
Believes — delusion fond —
The powder puff is quite enough
To make a lovely blonde.

Must we regard you as a bard?
Why, then I will admit
Your head has shocks of lovely locks
Without a hair on it.