love poem

Thou com'st, fair daughter of the Spring!
Ah! must I shun thee, lovely May?
No more to thee sweet incense bring,
Or deck thy shrine with chaplets gay?

Far distant from thy sportive train,
Must I to some lone rock retreat?
There to the curling waves complain,
Who, pitying, wash my weary feet,

That I no more with pleasure see
Thy various beauties, lovely May, —
The op'ning flow'r, the blossom'd tree,

I.

'Tis strange, Belinda , you shou'd ask,
To learn , what you so oft bestow !
You now impose too hard a Task ,
And I my Weakness needs must show.

II.

What Love is not, I know full well:
Blind Mortals , when they talk of Pain,
And Joys of Heaven , or of Hell ,
By Negatives the Theme maintain.

III.

True Love is not that rash Desire,
That sudden Start of Grief , and Joy ,

From the Cradle to the Grave
Mighty Love does all inslave.
First in Miss , and Master 's Brain
He begins his idle reign:
Nymphs , and Swains , and purling Streams,
Rival Knights , and rival Queens ,
Dreams of Pleasure pure as they,
(Symptoms of approaching Day)
In their dawning Fancies play;
Wishes , which in forming dye,
Tender Sighs they scarce know why.
Sighs , at length, awake Desire ,
Love becomes a raging Fire ,
Strongly seizes every Part,
Warms the Blood, and wounds the Heart .

The morning beaming on the flowery beds,
Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace,
Is far less lovely than thy lovely face —
Where Lada all her rays of radiance spreads.
The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring,
Which paints the may-rose, has no tint to give
So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring,
With ever-living smiles that round them live.
The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer
Than the gold strings of the musician's bow,
So magical: — to what shall I compare her!

Take these few verses, all too idly done
In English, — pondering the weary while
Of English fields, and faces, and the smile
Of those we loved whose golden sands have run,
Of hopes that flowered not, duties scarce begun, —
Along the changeless banks of tawny Nile,
Or scanning Karnak's immemorial pile
Lit with the glory of the dying sun
My Poet sang them in a different scene,
Bright child of Paris, blent of joys and fears,
He loved, and sinned, and suffered, most serene
When winning most the poor man's mirth or tears:

My country calls me, Kraska! dry thine eyes,
Disturb not with thy tears youth's quiet flow;
Rend not my heart — nor chill thine own with sighs;
Thy rosy cheeks are mantled o'er with snow —
Weep not because thy Ceskian leaves thee — No!
The mighty lion on the flag unfurl'd,
Roars with loud voice, and bids the warriors go —
Wealth, heart, and blood — our country — and the world.

How sweet and silent were our early days,
Gliding like meadow streamlets soft and still;
Enjoyment threw o'er every hour its rays,

I've sown the millet, yet I dare not reap the millet sown,
I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink from calling her my own.

To sow and reap not — love and keep not — strange and sad decree;
Sown, not gather'd — lov'd, not wedded — luckless doom for me.

Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the mountain brow,
My maiden swore eternal love — where is her promise now?

I gave a garland — from a farland — and she gave a ring
To her lover — idle treasure — which no love could bring.

Florinda, fond our Hearts to move,
Forth all at once her Art will call:
'Tis at first Sight she gains your Love,
Or she can ne'er disturb at all.

Not so divine Amelia tries,
Nor of such Conquests would she boast;
She knows what's taken by Surprize,
May by the next Surprize be lost.

She, with a softer, easier Grace,
Kindles at first a gentle Fire;

Love's for Youth, and not for Age,
E'en though Age should wear a crown;
For the Poet, not the Sage;
Not the Monarch, but the Clown.

Love 's for Peace, and not for War,
E'en though War bring all renown;
For the Violet, not the Star;
For the Meadow, not the Town.

Love 's for lads and Love 's for maids,
Courts a smile and flees a frown;
Love 's for Love, and saucy jades
Love Love most when Love has flown.

Love a cruel tyrant is:
Slays his victims with a glance,

Waller was noble, rich, polite, and young:
Yet Sidney slighted him, because he sung:
To small Success in Love great Wits are born;
Superiour Worth when did not Woman scorn?