love poem

To the most truly noble knight, worthy of all praise, loue, and honor, Sr Iohn Harington, onely sonne to the noble Lord, the Lord Harington.

Should I depaint thee with those shades and lights
(For rightest coulors will but wrong the life)
That might but touch thy vertues' depths and heights:
Arte with her selfe would striue to bee at strife:
For should I touch thy minde (intangible,
Fraught with whateuer makes or good or great,
As learning, language, artes immensible,
Witt, courage, courtesie; and all compleat)

I.

Fairest of flowers by fountain or lake.
Listen, my fawn-eyed one, wake, oh awake!
Pride of the prairies, one look from thy bower
Will gladden my spirits like dew-drops the flower.

II.

Thy glances to music my soul can attune,
As sweet as the murmur of young leaves in June;
Then breathe but a whisper from lips that disclose
A balm like the morning or autumn's last rose.

III.

My pulse leaps toward thee like fountains when first
Through their ice chains in April toward Heaven they burst;

I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond,
Which one in grief the other goes beyond, —
Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore
Died of the love that could not help him more;
Or I, that pine because I cannot see
The lady who is queen and love to me.

Nay — for Narcissus, in the forest pond
Seeing his image, made entreaty fond,
" Beloved, comfort on my longing pour " :
So for a while he soothed his passion sore;
So cannot I, for all too far is she —
The lady who is queen and love to me.

1. Mender

Are there any
as tender
as the day
with the night
in its arms
or the night
with the day?
If there is
will you send her?

2. Her Eyes

Her eyes hold black whips —
dart of a whip
lashing, nay, flicking,
nay, merely caressing

I.

'T WAS wrongly done, to let her know the feeling
Which mask'd so long within my heart lay hid,
Yet now I wonder at so well concealing
My soul's full tenderness, as long I did; —
'Twas wrongly done — and yet, howe'er it move
Her fervid nature thus to love in vain,
'Twere better vainly even thus to love
Than not to know she was beloved again!

Those hours of passion now for ever pass'd,

It's hard, but I don't wonder at mother —
Many a girl would be quite proud of him,
Older than I — but, loved me from a child.
I only wonder at his faithfulness,
Coming and going those long voyages
After my weak half yes's and half no's,
Taking a hope out to the distant lands,
Bringing his love home in his heart again,
Then coming here, saying to me, " Agnes,
Are you well, sweetheart — happy these long months
That were so long away from you, Agnes? "
(Long! they had passed passionately by me!)

A thousand years by sea and land
Our race hath served the island kings,
But not by custom's dull command
To-day with song her Empire rings:

Not all the glories of her birth,
Her armed renown and ancient throne,
Could make her less the child of earth
Or give her hopes beyond our own:

But stayed on faith more sternly proved
And pride than ours more pure and deep,
She loves the land our fathers loved
And keeps the fame our sons shall keep.

O God of love,
Shine from above,
With mercy strong and tender;
Thy sway alone
My heart would own,
My King and my Defender.

When sore afraid,
To Thee I prayed;
And soon, from Heaven replying,
Thy S PIRIT'S Breath
Wrought life from death,
And gave me songs for sighing.

All foul within,
Laden with sin,
And helpless bound thereunder;
Thy pardon came,
With word of flame,
And burst my bonds in sunder.

Therefore I sing,
O L ORD and K ING ;

A Ballad.

Ah me! how hard the task to bear
The weight of ills we know!
But harder still to dry the tear,
That mourns a nameless we.

If by the side of Lucy's wheel
I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,
My heart to beat within.

Or when on harvest holliday
I lead the dance along,
If Lucy chance to cross my way,
So sure she leads me wrong,

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.

In the retirement of this lovely spot,
Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth,
To boundless hospitality and mirth,
Be ever peace and joy — all care forgot,
Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot!

And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien,
Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles,
Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles,
The vocal syren of this sylvan scene.
Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green.