romantic poems

" Take this, a kiss " — Such words fell on mine ear,
As through the green gloom of a lawny glade,
For Love's high feast arrayed
In blood-red raiment, Love himself drew near.
With motion, voice and look divinely blent,
Like one sweet sound of many an instrument,
He came and breathed on me, then smiled and drew
From a small casket stored with balmy bliss
Such drops of honey-dew,
As his mouth, beelike, sips
From the warm, flower-soft lips
Of all who ever kissed beneath the moon; —
Saying as he gave the boon,

BY NEWTON .

She was just risen from her bended knee,
But yet peace seem'd not with her piety;
For there was paleness upon her young cheek,
And thoughts upon the lips which never speak,
But wring the heart that at the last they break.
Alas! how much of misery may be read
In that wan forehead, and that bow'd-down head! —
Her eye is on a picture: woe that ever
Love should thus struggle with a vain endeavour
Against itself: it is a common tale,

I'll sing of Heroes , and of Kings ;
In mighty Numbers, mighty things,
Begin, my Muse ; but lo, the strings
To my great Song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but Love .
I broke them all, and put on new;
'Tis this or nothing sure will do.
These sure (said I) will me obey;
These sure Heroick Notes will play.
Straight I began with thundring Jove ,
And all the'immortal Pow'ers but Love.
Love smil'ed, and from my'enfeebled Lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love, and soft desire.

I live with love encompassed round,
And glowing light that is not mine,
And yet am sad; for, truth to tell,
It is not I you love so well;
Some fair Immortal, robed and crowned,
You hold within your heart's dear shrine.

Cast out the Goddess! let me in;
Faulty I am, yet all your own,
But this bright phantom you enthrone
Is such as mortal may not win.

And yet this beauty that you see
Is like to mine, though nobler far;
Your radiant guest resembles me
E'en as the sun is like a star.

Alas, for the blight of my fancies!
 Alas, for the fall of my pride!
I planned, in my girlish romances,
 To be a philosopher's bride.

I pictured him learned and witty,
 The sage and the lover combined,
Not scorning to say I was pretty,
 Nor only adoring my mind .

No elderly, spectacled Mentor,
 But one who would worship and woo;
Perhaps I might take an inventor,
 Or even a poet would do.

And tender and gay and well-favoured,
 My fate overtook me at last:
I saw, and I heard, and I wavered,

This morn thy gallant bark, love,
Sailed on a sunny sea;
'Tis noon, and tempests dark, love,
Have wrecked it on the lee.
Ah woe! Ah woe! Ah woe!
By spirits of the deep
He's cradled on the billow
To his unwaking sleep.

Thou liest upon the shore, love,
Beside the knelling surge,
But sea-nymphs evermore, love,
Shall sadly chaunt thy dirge.
Oh come! Oh come! Oh come!
Ye spirits of the deep,
While near his seaweed pillow
My lonely watch I keep.

From far across the sea, love,

Love came to me one morn in May,
Bringing all glad things on his way,
" Lo, here are Autumn and Summer and Spring,
All three seasons in one I bring. "
He spake me smooth,
And he sware for sooth,
That his gold was good, and his troth was truth.
Alack, the day!
Heigho, Sing Sorrow!
Man sows in vain what he reaps with pain,
And the joy once gone shall be never again
Heigho, Sing Sorrow!
'Tis ever thus
Love deals with us;
Builds his bower for to-day, and then flies away
To-morrow.

I knew a strong man,
And he dwelt mid the hills where the swift streams ran,
For he loved to live where his life began.
But they took him away, and made him abide
Where the great streets darken and chafe and chide
With their ceaseless tide,
And he mourned for the hills which mourned for the man,
So he sickened and died.

I knew a weak bird,
And she sang in the woods where her song was first heard,
For she loved the bowers by her young wing stirred.
But they caught her away, and made her abide

Love , and the Gout invade the idle Brain,
Bus'ness prevents the Passion, and the Pain:
Ceres, and Bacchus, envious of our Ease,
Blow up the Flame, and heighten the Disease.
Withdraw the Fewel, and the Fire goes out;
Hard Beds, and Fasting, cure both Love and Gout.

For love Appollo (his Godhead set aside)
Was servant to the kyng of Thessaley,
Whose daughter was so pleasant in his eye,
That bothe his harpe and sawtrey he defide,
And bagpipe solace of the rurall bride,
Did puffe and blowe and on the holtes hy,
His cattell kept with that rude melody.
And oft eke him that doth the heavens gyde
Hath love transformed to shapes for him too base.
Transmuted thus sometime a swan is he,
Leda taccoye, and oft Europe to please,
A milde white bull, unwrinckled front and face,