Farewell my darling, fare thee well,
Life hence has only dearth;
With thee it were too sweet a dream--
Too much Heaven, for earth.
Thou dost not know the depth of pain
This parting gives to me,
Nor how, as time drags weary on,
My soul will sigh for thee.

Each loved one that thou leavest here,
Some other love may wear,
Each heart will have some other heart
Its loneliness to share.
But I have nothing, darling, left--
You're all the world to me--
And only God and Heaven can know
The love I give to thee.

White honeysuckle, "bond of love,"
Emblem born in Orient bowers,
Whence mythic Deities have wooed,
And told the soul's desire in flowers.
As sweet thy breath as Eden's balm,
As sweet and pure. Methinks that erst
Thy flower was of our earth a part,
Some angel hand the seed immersed
In fragrance of the lotus' heart,
And dropped it from the realm of calm.
And life of earth, and life above,
Thou bindest with they "bond of love."


* * * * *

Alone upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightning in the sky--
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.

Below my feet the still bazar is laid--
Far, far below the weary camels lie--
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

My father's wife is old and harsh with years,
And drudge of all my father's house am I--
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me. Beloved, or I die!

Live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,

Cruel Cerintus! does this fell disease,
Which racks my breast, your fickle bosom please.
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for love, and you again,
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate,
By Death alone, I can avoid your hate.

* * * * *

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's unequal hand alike controul'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.

* * * * *

Julia! since far from you I've rang'd,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you have chang'd,
I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.

2.

Your polish'd brow, no cares have crost,
And Julia! we are not much older,
Since trembling first my heart I lost,
Or told my love with hope, grown bolder.

3.

Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering pass'd away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!

4.

These locks which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine;
Than all th' unmeaning protestations,
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine.
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic.
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish.
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights, to sigh half frozen:

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me still;
My better angel is a man right fair,
My worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell:
For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries,
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.