romantic poems

I.

A Book, a Friend, a Song, a Glass,
A chaste, yet laughter-loving Lass,
To Mortals various Joys impart,
Inform the Sense, and warm the Heart.

II.

Thrice happy they, who, careless, laid
Beneath a kind-embow'ring Shade,
With Rosy Wreaths their Temples crown,
In Rosy Wine their Sorrows drown.

III.

Mean while the Muses wake the Lyre,
The Graces modest Mirth inspire,
Good-natur'd Humour, harmless Wit;
Well-temper'd Joys, nor grave, nor light.

IV.

In vain, my Damon , you look pale, and write,
Languish all Day, and sigh away the Night;
For while these inconsistent Forms you try,
She thinks you rival her Inconstancy.
Then show the Man again, and re-assume
The sprightly Pride of One-and-twenty's Bloom:
With Courage take her in your longing Arms,
And when she's conquer'd, she must yield her Charms.

L ONG thus in borrow'd Shapes Vertumnus strove
To cheat the fair Pomona into Love;
Yet still he try'd his Fallacies in vain,

I.

Since Stella 's Charms, divinely fair,
First pour'd their Lustre on my Heart,
Ten thousand Pangs my Bosom tear,
And ev'ry Fibre feels the Smart.
If such the mournful Moments prove,
O who wou'd give his Heart to Love!

II.

I meet my Bosom-Friends with pain,
Tho' Friendship us'd to warm my Soul;
Wine's generous Spirit flames in vain,
I find no Cordial in the Bowl.
If such the mournful Moments prove,
O who wou'd give his Heart to Love!

III.

Tho' Nature's Volume open lies,

I.

Within an unfrequented Grove
 As late I laid alone,
A tender Maid in deep Distress,
 At Distance, made her Moan.

II.

She cropt the blue-ey'd Violet,
 Bedew'd with many a Tear;
And ever and anon her Sighs
 Stole sadly on my Ear.

III.

“Ah faithless Man! how cou'd he leave
 So fond and true a Maid?
Can so much Innocence and Truth
 Deserve to be betray'd?

IV.

Alass, my Mother (if the Dead
 Can hear their Children groan.)

[Edward to Lacy]
[I tell thee, Lacy, that]
—Her sparkling eyes
Do lighten forth sweet love's alluring fire;
And in her tresses she doth fold the looks
Of such as gaze upon her golden hair.
Her bashful white, mix'd with the morning's red,
Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheeks.
Her front is beauty's table, where she paints
The glories of her gorgeous excellence;
Her teeth are shelves of precious margarites,
Richly enclos'd with ruddy coral cleaves.

Venus , d'ye say? For beauty not unlike.
But where's, my friend! the wish-inspiring glance?
The ambiguous aspect, lure and rack of love?
Pale, flushing languish? Or the scornful frown,
Ending repentant in a luscious smile?

No. Virtue inspiriting that noble form
Than Venus ever boasted more divine
Sure has on earth descended to reveal
Herself. How lovely! Made thus visible!
That shape how just! In that complection, fair
As innocence unspotted, sweetly glow
The mingled delicacies. In her eye

You see this rose,
Its calyx, its petals?
Since fair it shows
Could you forget, all's
Well with your heart to the heart's confusion
And the mind's disjointure. What's conclusion?
Look on her blossom, half white, half pinky.
Would you choose her, the choice yours, think ye?

Or if, depressed

The drowsy glade, all mellowed by the moon,
Lavished its fragrance through the midnight air;
The breeze was suave and languorous with June,
Nature and I waited thy coming there!

I watched the crimson of the roses, strewn
As if to carpet thee love's pathway rare,
And listened to thy signal, that soft tune
Once lulled within the great heart of Schubert!

I heard thy footfall; — joy hath one surprise
Death can not conquer with its cruel power.
The starry scraps of Heaven within thine eyes

O SILVER bird, fly down, fly down,
Bring thy fair gifts to him and me:
A purse contains a minted crown,
A golden ring for me.
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

But upon the highest bough
See amid the leaves he swings,
Pipes three notes of laughter low,
Flirts, and folds his flashy wings.
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

What is't, bird, thy soul demands?
Come, I'll rock thee in my breast;
I will stroke thee with my hands;
Where none rested thou shalt rest. . . .

Sweet enslaver of the heart,
Radiant spirit born above,
Who can tell us what thou art,
Winning, wildering, witching love?

Hope and memory, care and thought,
Joy and sorrow, fear and pain,
All mysteriously inwrought
Are the linklets of thy chain.

Giver of our earliest breath;
Soother when our hearts are riven;
Mourner by the bed of death;
Porter at the gate of Heaven:

Dweller by the cottage hearth;
Ruler in the palace bower;
Holiest gift of Heaven to earth,