Firmi the Desert I come to thee, on a stallion shod with fire, And the winds are left behind And the midnight desire. hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, with a love that never shall die, Oct. 29, 1853. Bayard Taylor. POEMS OF LOVE. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. THE fountains mingle with the river, With a sweet emotion; See the mountains kiss high heaven, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. OVER the mountains And over the waves; And under the graves; Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lye; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; You may esteem him Or you may deem him A coward from his flight: But if she whom love doth honor Be conceal'd from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way. You may train the eagle The phoenix of the East; The lioness, ye may move her To give o'er her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover, He will find out his way. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. AH, HOW SWEET IT IS TO LOVE! AH, how sweet it is to love! Pains of love be sweeter far Sighs which are from lovers blown E'en the tears they shed alone, Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death. Love and time with reverence use- Which in youth sincere they send; Love, like spring-tides, full and high, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear. JOHN DRYDEN. LOVE IS A SICKNESS. LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using: Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries, Hey, ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; More we enjoy it, more it dies; While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play; And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me-- See! see the flowers that below GILES FLETCHER SAMUEL DANIEL. PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG. Not all the skill his wounds can stanch; ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he Strike I my lute, he tunes the string: Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I'll count your power not worth a pin : If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes,-I like of thee, O Cupid! so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee. THOMAS LODGE. "Tis cruel to prolong a pain; And to defer a bliss, Believe me, gentle Hermoine, No less inhuman is. A hundred thousand oaths your fears 'Tis fitter much for you to guess But grant, oh! grant that happiness Which only does remain. SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE. WERE I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go. LOVE STILL HATH SOMETHING OF Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the THE SEA. LOVE still hath something of the sea, They are becalm'd in clearest days, One while they seem to touch the port; At first disdain and pride they fear, Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and falsehood soon appear In a more dreadful shape. By such degrees to joy they come, skies, CUPID AND CAMPASPE. CUPID and my Campaspe playd At cardes for kisses; Cupid payd: He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mothers doves, and teame of sparrows Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lippe, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) With these, the crystal of his browe, And then the dimple of his chinne; All these did my Campaspe winne. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. |