Let all records be searchèd o're and o're,
Such an unequal marriage as this
Was never seen or heard before,
Where heaven and earth, God and man kiss,
Where Majesty and misery do meet,
Power and infirmity each other greet.

Thou art the King of Glory, Lord of life,
Thy Spouse at best a creature poor; but since
Her fall, deformed, and not fit wife
Will make for Thee so great a Prince.
Go court the Angels then; yet they, though bright,
Are creatures too, and scarce pure in Thy sight;

How much less I that on my belly creep,

H — — e, sweet name! whose princely meaning shows,
From what high spring , your blood's rich current flows,
With needless awe , reminds us of your race ,
Since heav'n has stampt dominion on your face.
Still, in your sov'reign form , distinctly live,
All royal rights, your father kings could give!
In your commanding air , we mark their state ,
And, in your words , their wisdom , and their weight .
Warm, in your noble breast , their courage lies,
And all their pow'r , and mercy , in your eyes .

I.

How long will lovely Amaret complain,
 In gentle notes , that wound each list'ning ear?
How long, alas! will she delight in pain,
 Which choice , not fate , inclines her soul to bear!

II.

 Strange paradox of love!—the vanquish'd maid,
 By cruel conquest , many still destroys!
What beauty gives her— passion has betray'd,
  And love, misplac'd, prevented all her joys .

III.

One way, and only one, does, yet, remain,
 Whereby, lost peace of mind you may restore,
Abandon'd ease , and your blest state regain,

I.

Is there a stream on this sweet earth
In vale or woodland, where
Traditions of unhappy love
Breathe not like summer air?

II.

There is no thought to hallow earth
With more consoling gladness
Than the true comfort she hath given
To lovers in their sadness.

III.

Green trees and streams and castled steeps
Are sweetest when they move,
The gentle forms in stirring songs
Of old disastrous love.

IV.

Born of no time or nation, still,
In its imperial force,

From the earliest days,
Ev'ry writer of lays
Has delighted to sing about Passion;
But of rhymes there's a dearth
For the Briton by birth
Who would follow this popular fashion.
For though Love is a theme
That we poets esteem
As unrivalled, immortal, sublime too,
'Tis a word that the bard
Finds it daily more hard
To discover a suitable rhyme to!
For one can't always mention the " stars up above, "

I.

When Jacob 's muse re-strings the slacken'd lyre ,
And, sweetly pensive, sounds the meaning strain,
Why does his fruitless modesty , in vain,
Conceal his name , yet, not conceal his fire :
Since sentiments alone the soul explain,
Keep your thoughts hid, or think not you retire .

II.

Rare, and soon-mark'd, in this receiving age,
Strait, to its spring , unvenal verse is trac'd;
Its course far shining, tho' its banks defac'd!
'Twas needless to subscribe the speaking page,
Unpension'd eminence, and worth mis-plac'd ,

Tell me, sweet glove! what name the charmer bears,
Whose downy hand thy snowy cov'ring wears?

'Tis a dear name , I am forbid to tell,
But these distinguish'd marks may paint her well:
She's gently aweful , winningly severe ,
Charms , when she speaks , yet rather loves, to hear ;
Wise, as a god ; as fancy'd angels , fair;
Lovely, as light , and soft, as upper air .

Enough, sweet glove! by this plain picture , taught,
H — — e, I find, is the dear name , I sought.

Somewhat of wildness and of weak untruth
And fond abstraction, surely may be borne,
Not without ready pardon, in a youth
Who hath but for awhile his fetters worn.
For the hot heart of youth hath laws: mayhap
The seeds of married faith are often cast
Upon this surge of hopes, and in the lap
Of vernal love may take true root at last.
Yet courtship is the unshapely element,
Whence the deep power of chaste affection still
Must calmly be evoked, till it fulfil
The end and nature of a sacrament,
And sanctify both spirits from above

O that I was all soul, that I might prove
For you as fit a love
As you for angel's, for I vow
None but pure spirits ere are fit for you.

You're all ethereal—there's in you no dross,
Nor any part that's gross;
Your coarsest part is like the curious lawn,
With cords for vestal relics drawn.

Your finer part, part of the purest fire
That ere Heaven did inspire;
Makes every thought that is refined by it,
A quintessence of goodness and of wit.

Thus hath your rapture reach'd to that degree
In love's highest philosophy,

WRITTEN AT THE KING'S COMMAND .

Thou that lov'd once, now lov'st no more,
For fear to show more love than brain,
With heresy unhatched before,
Apostacy thou dost maintain.
Can he have either brain or love,
That doth inconstancy approve?
A choice well made, no change admits,