romantic poems

AESCHINAS

A very good day to master Thyonichus.

THYONICHUS

To Aeschinas the same.

AESCHINAS

Well met!

THYONICHUS

Well met it is; but what ails ye?

AESCHINAS

Luck's way's not my way, Thyonichus.

THYONICHUS

Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;
The hour will come when bitterly
Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone!

And let thy breast with kindness glow,
And gentle thoughts within thee move,
While yet a heart, through weal and woe,
Beats to thine own in faithful love.

And who to thee his heart doth bare,
Take heed thou fondly cherish him;

Thyrsis: — Nymphs, who dwell among the waters of the Rhine, Pan, gay keeper of flocks, twi-horned Satyrs, hear me! Grant that Phyllis may love me more than she loves Amynta, or swiftly heal me with death.
Alcon: — O father, O Faunus, often we sang your love; I hung a pine-wreath upon your horns, and when Lydia shall bind your brows with crimson garlands, let her not scorn me for ever.
Thyrsis: — Hills, unshorn hills, soft meadows, Rhine flowing gently by, tell me, did Phyllis teach you to love her when she sang, or did she hurt you with her beauty?

Oh! Love is a terror, a terror; but why do I sob out his name?
For he crackles and glows with complaining, with cursing he bursts into flame!
It is strange how thou camest, Aphrodite, all wet from the sea that is gray,
But red and forever afire is this fruit of thyself and the spray!

I

The R HYME

Fair Babe, I bless thee who thou art,
God and His Kingdom's counterpart.

I worship, laud, and magnify thee,
and, Holy! Holy! cry thee.

Hereafter, as old rhyme hath sung,
Thou'lt taste both joy and sorrow among .
And, last, translated with his Saints,
Thou'lt live in Him who in thee paints
His own divine delineaments,
The Idol of our earthly sense.

II.

The R IDDLE

Simichidas, thou love-demented loon!
What haste is this, when no man's need doth call?
Surely the gods have witched thee. 'Tis high noon.
No creature else hath any strength at all;
The spotted lizard sleeps upon the wall;
The skiey larks drop earthward for the boon
Of one still hour; the ants forget to crawl.
Naught stirs except the stones beneath thy shoon.
Nay, but I know; not love impels thee thus;
Thy journey's end will bring a baser gain.
Some burgher's feast or vintner's overplus

I thought upon my lady as I strode
Last night from labour, and bemoaned my lot,
Uncertain if she loves or loves me not,
Who gives no sign or token; till the road
Bent round and took me past my Love's abode.
And then some happy chance, I know not what,
Moved me to try a spell long time forgot,
By which Love's issue may be clear foreshowed.
I plucked a poppy from the wayside grass
And struck it sharply on my naked arm,
Striving to burst its inner heart. Alas!
The petals only clung in painless calm.

Good Tityros, attend these goats awhile,
And let me seek where Amaryllis hides,
Crannied, I guess, beneath that rocky pile
With fern atop and ivy-mantled sides.
'T is there most days the merry girl abides,
And flashes from her cave a sudden smile,
Which like a pharos-flame her lover guides
And makes him hope he looks not wholly vile.
If thou canst guard the flock while I am gone,
I will but notice how my lady fares,
Then hasten back and take the crook anon.
The goats are tame — the least of all my cares,

That haughty tyranny of thine,
That neck unbending, Love shall take,
I vow, and victim of thee make
In harsh subjection to repine.
Live out thy vain and care-free days,
Love's bitter ways
Shall charge the measure of my score,
When of thy sorrow none shall more
Take any notice whoso pays.

When through the golden locks that crown
Thy brows the scattered snows shall run,
And thy twin daystars have begun
To dim their lights of old renown;
When the first wrinkle line shall sear
Thy visage clear,

Those charming eyes within whose starry sphere
Love whilom sat, and smiled the hours away,—
Those braids of light, that shamed the beams of day,—
That hand benignant, and that heart sincere,—
Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear
Like snow-banks scattered with the blooms of May,
Turned to a little cold and worthless clay,
Are gone, forever gone, and perished here,

But not unbathed by Memory's warmest tear!
Death thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour,
That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a flower,