O my Lorena,
You I miss;
Give me kiss.
I want to give you
Morning dew,
Love and peace.
O my Dove
Beautiful,
O my Love
Warm and cool,
I want you to take
To love-lake,
To love-beach.
Every day
Every night
To get you
I do fight.
I want to gain you,
Obtain you,
You to reach.
2.
I have made,
Lorena,
A love-bed,
Lorena;
Won't you come
To stay there
Forever?
The bed is
'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,
Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,
Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky.
They fade like dew in the morning beam,
Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.
'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.
Give me more love, or more disdain;
The torrid or the frozen zone
Bring equal ease unto my pain,
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture hopes; and he's possessed
Of heaven, that's but from hell released.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.
Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
How ill doth he deserve a lover's name,
Whose pale weak flame
Cannot retain
His heat, in spite of absence or disdain;
But doth at once, like paper set on fire,
Burn and expire;
True love can never change his seat,
Nor did her ever love, that could retreat.
That noble flame which my breast keeps alive
Shall still survive
When my soul's fled;
Nor shall my love die when my body's dead,
That shall wait on me to the lower shade,
And never fade;
My very ashes in their urn
Let no Shepherd sing to me
The stupid praise of Constancy,
Nature bids her subjects range,
All creation's full of change.
See the varying hours display
Morning, Evening, Night, and Day,
See the circling seasons bring
Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring.
Shall the river's current full
Idly sleep a stagnate pool,
Shall the pedant's mandate bind
The rapid wave, the fleeting wind.
Thus I sung when Chloe's eyes
Made my vanquish'd heart their prize,
Where's my passion now to range,
Thy form was fair, thine eye was bright,
Thy voice was melody;
Around thee beam'd the purest light
Of love's own sky.
Each word that trembled on thy tongue
Was sweet, was dear to me;
A spell in those soft numbers hung
That drew my soul to thee.
Thy form, thy voice, thine eyes are now
As beauteous and as fair;
But though still blooming is thy brow,
Love is not there.
And though as sweet thy voice be yet,
Thou wert lovely to my sight,
When in yonder dell I found thee
In thy radiant beauty bright,
Though a desert spread around thee;
Like the heath-bell's purple flower,
Shrinking from a dewy shower.
Thou art rich in beauty yet,
Fair as when at first I loved thee;
All the snares that could beset,
Rank and splendour, since have proved thee;
Change thy fortune as it will,
Thou art fair and faultless still.
Odi quelrusignolo
Che va di ramo in ramo
Cantado; io amo; io amo.
Tasso's Aminta
This mournful heart can dream of nought but thee,
As with slow steps among these shades I move,
And hear the nightingale from tree to tree
Sighing "I love! I love!"
This mournful heart wakes to one thought alone
That still our fatal parting will renew,
To hear that bird when Spring's last eve is gone
In early days thy fondness taught
My soul its endless love to know;
Thy image waked in every thought,
Nor fear'd my tongue to tell thee so.
In all the trusting faith of youth,
That knows no dread, that feels no care,
I deem'd thy heart was all of truth,
And I the cherish'd object there.
Alas! the vision'd bliss is gone—
Too soon those days were o'er!
This heart still loves—but loves alone—
Its joys are there no more
