Once on a glorious and resplendent eve,
Through copse and underwood my path I broke;
The shining sun was on the point to leave,
And flash'd through thickets of the pine and oak;
'Twas sweet to see those vari-colour'd rays
Come pouring through the coverts silently;
Through little fluttering loop-holes, set ablaze,
Or blinkt, at will, by shifting of an eye;
That evening's charms were rich and manifold,
Beyond the reach of my best utterance;
'Twas some kind Providence, no common chance,
Which made mine eyes wink at those wells of gold

Sure , hapless Fair, no hearts can ever know,
But banish'd lovers, banish'd lovers' woe!
Ah! Eloiza, ever exil'd maid,
I read thy sorrows, sorrowing as I read:
My sympathetic heart now shares thy grief,
Repeats thy sighs, and wishes thy relief:
But when I hear thee unrelenting boast
Thy tainted virtue, and thy honour lost,
All sense of pity in my bosom dies,
And direful tumults of reproaches rise:
No passions soft, or sadly-pleasing pain,
But rage and madness in thy bosom reign;
Ah! must thy Abelard exalted be,
Above the Maker of himself and thee!

Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale
Where Yarrow streams along,
Forsake your rural toils, and join
In my triumphant song.
She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile
A tones her long delays,
One happy minute crowns the pains
Of many suffering days.

Raise, raise the victor-notes of joy,
These suffering days are o'er,
Love satiates now his boundless wish
From beauty's boundless store;
No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears
This rising calm destroy,
Now every prospect smiles around
All opening into joy.

All things that pass
Are woman's looking-glass;
They show her how her bloom must fade,
And she herself be laid
With withered roses in the shade;
With withered roses and the fallen peach.
Unlovely, out of reach
Of summer joy that was.

All things that pass
Are woman's tiring-glass;
The faded lavender is sweet,
Sweet the dead violet
Culled and laid by and cared for yet;
The dried-up violets and dried lavender
Still sweet, may comfort her,
Nor need she cry Alas!

All things that pass
Are wisdom's looking-glass;

The scentless laurel a broad leaf displays,
Few and by fewer gather'd are the bays;
Yet these Apollo wore upon his brow . .
The boughs are bare, the stem is twisted now.

For Thursday be the tournament prepar'd,
And gentlemen in lordly jousts compete:
First man with man, together let them meet,—
By fifties and by hundreds afterward.
Let arms with housings each be fitly pair'd,
And fitly hold your battle to its heat
From the third hour to vespers, after meat;
Till the best-winded be at last declared.
Then back unto your beauties, as ye came:
Where upon sovereign beds, with wise control
Of leaches, shall your hurts be swathed in bands.
The ladies shall assist with their own hands,

CXCVI

I know not where my heavy sighs to hide.
My sorrowful heart is so vexed with pain
I wander forth as one without a guide
That seeketh to find a thing parted in twain
And so forth run that scant can turn again.
Thus time I pass and waste full piteously
For death it is out of thy sight to be.

I scantly know from whom comes all my grief,
But that I waste as one doth in sickness
And cannot tell which way comes my mischief.
For all I taste to me is bitterness
And of my health I have no sickerness
Nor shall not have till that I do thee see.

Take heed of loving mee,
At least remember, I forbade it thee;
Not that I shall repaire my unthrifty wast
Of Breath and Blood, upon thy sighes, and teares,
By being to thee then what to me thou wast;
But, so great Joy, our life at once outweares,
Then, least thy love, by my death, frustrate bee,
If thou love mee, take heed of loving mee.

Take heed of hating mee,
Or too much triumph in the Victorie.
Not that I shall be mine owne officer,
And hate with hate againe retaliate;
But thou wilt lose the stile of conquerour,

From yon green, which 'mid th' acacia's brown and crimson leaves endeavours
Yet to linger, though no wind hath stirred, itself a leaflet severs:
And it seems a soul is dying,
Shuddering imperceptibly.

Seems the mist a veil of silver o'er the streamlet softly purling;
Through the mist the leaf falls, lost amid the water's rapid whirling.
Ah, what means the feverish sighing
Of the graveyard cypresses?

Suddenly breaks forth the sun, and o'er the morning damps prevaileth
And thro' snowy clouds across the azure sky serenely saileth:

The Father was and aye shall be
And is withouten end;
The Son died upon the tree,
Our false foen to schend;
The Holy Ghost that maketh Three
That may us grace send:
All is one in Trinity
What way thou turn or wend.
I may say withouten boast
The Holy Book lieth never;
Father and Son and Holighost
Be with us now and ever!