She is my violin!
As the violinist lays his ear to his instrument
That he may catch the low vibrations of the deeper strings,
So I lay my ear to her breast.
I hear her blood singing and I am shaken with ecstasy;
For am I not the musician?

She is my harp — I play upon her.
I touch her, and she trembles as a harp with the first chord of a revery.
I lay my hands upon her with that divine thrill in my finger-tips,
That reverent nervousness of the fingers,
Which a harpist feels when he reaches for a ravishing chord.

Ingenious was that bee
In lip that wound which made,
And kind to others, though unkind to thee;
For by a just exchange,
On that most liuelie red,
It giues to those reuenge,
Whom that delicious, plump, and rosie part,
All pittilesse, perhaps, now wounds the hart.

A cunning hand it was
Of this hard rocke did frame
That monster of all ages, mankind's shame,
Ferce Nero, hell's disgrace:
Of wit, sence, pitie void,
Did he not liuing, marble hard surpasse,
His mother, master, countrie, all destroyed?
Not alt'ring his first case,
A stone he was when set upon a throne,
And now a stone he is, although dethroned downe.

Wise hand, which wiselie wroght
That dying dame, who first did banish kings
Thy light and shadow brings
In doubt the wond'ring thought,
If it a substance be, or faignet show,
That doth so liuelie smart.
The colours stroue for to have made her liue,
Wer not thy hart sayed no,
That fear'd perchance the wound so should her giue:
Yet in the fatall blow
She seemes to speake, nay speakes with Tarquin's hart;
But death her stays, surprising her best part,
If death her stayed not, killing her best part.

When the time for the bloom of the roses comes,
Gentle are the showers that are falling on the meadows;
Whose fortune is there that can rival his,
Whose steps lead him to wander through the gardens?
To-day good luck is on my side:
May my destiny be ever so friendly to me,
That my stay should be in such a lovely spot,
As famed like it is none other in Hindustan.
Had the Abdal's eyes but lit upon this place,
All other regions would they have forsaken for it.
Midst its meadows the waters wander wildly,
Through its turf the streams run ever on;

O sad farewell!
And who shall tell
The tides of grief that in our bosoms swell?

Yes ! we must part,
And grief's worst smart
Asks — Has he — has he a forgetful heart?

F ORGETFUL ? No!
For that were woe,
Peace to o'erwhelm — and hope to overthrow.

O WHY oppress,
O why distress
My soul — by breathing of — forgetfulness?

'T IS a light thought,
By coldness taught;
A foolish fancy — that betokeneth nought.

Mother! look round thee,
Round thee and see,
All the youths struggling,
Struggling for me.

Fierce is the struggle,
Eager and wild:
Does thy heart gladden?
I am thy child!

I left my maiden to repair
With other maids to morning-prayer
And as I pass'd, the cuckow spoke,
From the green oak:
Coo-coo — coo-coo!
" O thou my golden, golden dove! "
Coo-coo — coo-coo!
" Stretch out thy hand, my love. "

Mournful star! in heaven's blue deep,
Tell a weeper, dost thou weep?
Dost thou weep o'er woes and fears —
Golden sparks should be thy tears,
If alive to sympathy.

Star of melancholy! mourn,
Light for me thy midnight urn;
If some tale of sorrow swept
By thee — often hast thou wept,
Mournful starlet! weep with me!

Mourne not, faire Greece, the ruine of thy kings,
Thy temples raz'd, thy forts with flemes deuour'd,
Thy championes slaine, thy virgines pure deflowred,
Nor all those greifes which sterne Bellona brings:
But mourne, fair Greece, mourne that that sacred band
Which made thee once so famous by their songs,
Forct by outrageous Fate, haue left thy land,
And left thee scarce a voice to plaine thy wrongs;
Monrne that those climates which to thee appeare
Beyond both Phaebus and his sistere's wayes,
To saue thy deedes from death must lend thee layes,