And did you think my heart
Could keep its love unchanging,
Fresh as the buds that start
In spring, nor know estranging?
Listen! The buds depart:
I loved you once, but now —
I love you more than ever.

'T is not the early love;
With day and night it alters,
And onward still must move
Like earth, that never falters
For storm or star above.
I loved you once; but now —
I love you more than ever.

With gifts in those glad days
How eagerly I sought you!
Youth, shining hope, and praise:

WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS .

O MAY I hope that every tear
May be a beam of bliss above!
And every silent suffering here,
A precious pledge of heavenly love.

Then will I calmly bear my pain,
The piercing pain that wrings my breast;
Nor any sorrow think in vain,
That ends in everlasting rest.

WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS .

O MAY I hope that every tear

CHLORIS .

HYLAS , oh Hylas! why sit we mute,
Now that each bird saluteth the spring
Wind up the slack'ned strings of thy lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing;
For love thy breast does fill with such a fire,
That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.

HYLAS .

Sweetest! you know, the sweetest of things
Of various flowers the bees do compose;
Yet no particular taste it brings
Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose;
So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand several faces.

CHLORIS .

Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek,
Paddle the swift caique.
Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek,
Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,
Swift bending to your oars.
Beneath the melancholy sycamores,
Hark! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul pours.

Behold! the bows seem quivering with delight,
The stars themselves more bright,
As 'mid the waving branches out of sight
The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night.

" O LOVE , whom I so love, in this sore strait
Of thine, fall not! Below thy very feet
I kneel, so much I reverence thee, so sweet
It is to every pulse of mine to wait
Thy lightest pleasure, and to bind my fate
To thine by humblest service. Incomplete
All heaven, Love, if there thou dost not greet
Me, with perpetual need which I can sate,
I and no other! So I dare to pray
To thee this prayer. It is not wholly prayer.
The solemn worships of the ages lay
Even on God a solemn bond. I dare, —
Thy worshipper, thy lowly, loving mate, —

FOR THE DRAMA OF " THE SPY. "

The harp of love, when first I heard
Its song beneath the moonlight tree,
Was echoed by his plighted word,
And ah, how dear its song to me;
But wailed the hour will ever be
When to the air the bugle gave,
To hush love's gentle minstrelsy,
The wild war music of the brave.

For he hath heard its song, and now
Its voice is sweeter than mine own;

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF P. SALANDRI .

TO A BRIDE.

The more divinely beautiful thou art,
Lady! of love's inconstancy beware;
Watch o'er thy charms, and with an angel's care
O guard thy maiden purity of heart:
At every whisper of temptation start;
The lightest breathings of unhallow'd air
Love's tender, trembling lustre will impair,
Till all the light of innocence depart.

Fresh from the bosom of an Alpine hill,

Oh, love this house, and make of it a Home —
A cherished, hallowed place.
Root roses at its base, and freely paint
The glow of welcome on its smiling face!
For after friends are gone, and children marry,
And you are left alone . . .
The house you loved will clasp you to its heart,
Within its arms of lumber and of stone.

Oh, love this house, and make of it a Home —
A cherished, hallowed place.
Root roses at its base, and freely paint
The glow of welcome on its smiling face!
For after friends are gone, and children marry,

Think of me as your friend, I pray,
— And call me by a loving name;
I will not care what others say,
— If only you remain the same.
I will not care how dark the night;
— I will not care how wild the storm;
Your love will fill my heart with light
— And shield me close and keep me warm.

Think of me as your friend, I pray,
— For else my life is little worth:
So shall your memory light my way,
— Although we meet no more on earth.
For while I know your faith secure,
— I ask no happier fate to see:

Forgive me if I speak possessively of him
— Who now is yours, yet still is mine;
Call it the silver cord disparagingly
— And weave new colors in an old design,
Yet know the warp was started long ago
— By faltering steps, by syllable and sound,
By all the years in which I watched him grow. . . .
— By all the seasons' turnings are we bound.
But now, I loose the cord, untie the knot,
— Unravel years so he is yours alone
And if there is a message I forgot
— Or something that could help you had you known,