romantic poems

LOVE

An old Egyptian monarch, when his arms
Had girt the world, or what he knew thereof,
Wrote on his tomb, " All bow to woman's charms,
The greatest conquerer of the earth is Love. "

I strove with none for none was worth my strife;
Reason I loved, and next to reason, doubt;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life
And put it out.

Love is not blind. I see with single eye
Your ugliness and other women's grace.
I know the imperfection of your face, —
The eyes too wide apart, the brow too high
For beauty. Learned from earliest youth am I
In loveliness, and cannot so erase
Its letters from my mind, that I may trace
You faultless, I must love until I die.
More subtle is the sovereignty of love:
So am I caught that when I say, " Not fair, "
'Tis but as if I said, " Not here — not there —
Not risen — not writing letters. " Well I know

DREAMT AS PARTS OF A NEW PLAY WHICH I WROTE .

H E had been struck with Beauty's glance:—the bower
Was nuptial, and was bless'd with holy rites.
They have a child, as lovely as the morn,
Brought into life, and by a peasant's dame
The sacred charge is nurtur'd:—here's the cot
Known by the willow that hangs over it!

WITH AN AIR THAT SHE WAS TO SING .

T O thee my offspring I commend,
The infant's guide, the parent's friend.
Play with my little helpless birth
Before its hands can leave the earth.

To thee alone its trembling fate,
My hopes and fears, I consecrate;
For it was thy enchanting voice
That made the Nymph I love my choice.

One of Nine Sisters took my heart,
And Love to both resign'd his dart.
The couch was bless'd, — Lucina came,

Love — on Delia's breast reposing!
Love — whose ray her eyes impart!
Love! — in her — thyself disclosing;
Let me find thee — in her heart!

'T IS true — that me , with roses crown'd,
The tear of Sympathy has found,
And been at once obey'd;
That Pleasure's light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk — when pale Misfortune's hour
Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true — that in the moral grief ,
I never ask'd or wish'd relief,
Nor envy'd playful ease:
But Love the miracle has wrought,
And Love the feeling bosom taught,
How dearly Pain can please!

M Y youthful heart a willing slave
To Love's enchanting bloom I gave.
But Winter 's come — 'tis Nature's frost ,
The leaves and germs of Spring are lost.

Again, Promethean Love, inspire
The genial flame of young desire;
And thou shalt make the parting flower,
Shame with its hue the Vernal bower.

A RE these propitious Hymen's fruits?
Must Beauty feel the shafts of Death?
When Spring the tender blossom shoots,
Why darts the South his tainted breath?

Extinguish'd is the torch of Love —
Near the cold urn these ashes fill:
In anguish mourns the Cyprian Dove,
And Flora's tears their odour spill.

The youthful Brides are struck with fear,
When Love has crown'd the nuptial bed;
In Stella's fate their own they hear,
And willows in the wreath are spread.

But let them smile, and be secure!

AND thus can storms of thine reprove,
Oh, God of Peace, of Hope, and Love!
Can this be life, that so can fade?
Breath — of the vernal dews afraid!
'Twas yesterday that Stella's bloom
Dispell'd all images of gloom,
With spirits of the new-born day,
And fearless of the night's decay;
That Nature, innocent of guile,
Was crown'd with Beauty's radiant smile,
With blushes that surpass'd the rose
When first its bright vermillion glows:
When Love prepar'd the nuptial bower,
And bless'd the consecrated hour.