Her Saffron smock and garlands blue,
Still fragrant with the myrrhine dew
Of ivy berries, and her snood
Alexo offers to the god,
Priapus of the girlish glance,
A guerdon for his vigil dance.

The wine-cup flew with treacherous haste
As in your arms I lay embraced,
While low you murmured in my ear
Whispers of love so sweet to hear.
I fell asleep, a maiden free;
And in my sleep you conquered me.

So now to Venus here I bring
These sandals for an offering,
And these soft bands with perfume wet
Which on my bosom then were set,
That they may witness how I strove
Before I yielded to my love.

I.

There's not a flower that ever blows
But tells of blossoms fairer far.
Who ever saw the sweet queen rose?
What eye hath reached the furthest star?
There's not a joy that earth can bring
But tells of something holier yet:
Delight that bears no hidden sting,
And joy not followed by regret.
This is the gladdening word of time
To hearts that sorrow and despond;
Each hill-top that our footsteps climb

WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES DICKENS BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEBRUARY 1, 1842

The stars their early vigils keep,
The silent hours are near,
When drooping eyes forget to weep, —
Yet still we linger here;
And what — the passing churl may ask —
Can claim such wondrous power,
That Toil forgets his wonted task,
And Love his promised hour?

The Irish harp no longer thrills,

By Timo's wealth of ringlets
In lovers' true-knots drest,
By Demo's fragrant perfumes
And sleep-beguiling breast,

By Ilias' sportive fancies
And by my lamp's dim light —
The lamp that's seen the revels
Of many a vigil night —

Upon my lips my spirit faints;
But while I breathe and live,
All that to me of life remains
To thee, great Love, I give.

Soft is her voice, persuasion in it speaks,
Cupid himself sent roses for her cheeks,
Love decked the couch wherein she now is laid,
Happy, thrice happy maid.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE

They bid me strike the idle strings,
As if my summer days
Had shaken sunbeams from their wings
To warm my autumn lays;
They bring to me their painted urn,
As if it were not time
To lift my gauntlet and to spurn
The lists of boyish rhyme;
And were it not that I have still
Some weakness in my heart
That clings around my stronger will

Is this the lark
Lord Shakespeare heard
Out of the dark
Of dawn? Is this the bird
That stirred
Lord Shakespeare's heart?

Is this the bird whose wing,
Whose rapturous antheming,
Rose up, soared radiant, became
Sharp flame
To Shelley listening
And made him sing,
Throbbing alone, aloof, feveredly apart,
His profuse strains of unpremeditated art?

To think that I should hear him now
Telling that single fiery rift of heaven a wild lark comes! ...
The fresh cool scent of earth yearns at the plough;

The old sleep-spectres would have passed away,
Had you been gracious, sweet. I should have slept,
And woke and smiled, and woke again and wept,
Too peaceful and too close to God to pray,
Your bosom being God-gifted to convey
The sense of sweet security to me: —
I should have found his soft repose in thee,
And sunk in heaven deeper day by day.

But heaven on earth is given to but few

See how the Cupids string their bows
As from her couch Irene goes,
The golden couch of Love.
A statue with a maiden's face
From head to foot arrayed in grace
Her power they soon will prove.
From purple cord they speed the dart
Which quick shall pierce some youthful heart.