Say not — I love, — when Beauty storms,
And takes perforce thy willing heart;
Her kindling smile each bosom warms,
Her eye is Cupid's bow and dart.
For rosy cheeks and breasts of snow,
And teeth that gleam where red lips be,
Such things will drive men daft, you know,
As long as men can think or see.

But if a passion in thee rise
For one whose outward look is bad,
Then dost thou see with partial eyes;
Then love indeed hath made thee mad.

For scented breath and laughter low,

I'm in love with a widow. I own it. I swear it!
Fill your glasses, and drink me her weal.
Ridicule, disaffection — let none of you dare it;
Real love is too precious, and my love is real.

But first, jolly friends, ere you hasten to pledge her,
Of her virtues I'll briefly descant;
Everything that is charming I'll boldly allege her —
" More virtues than virtue? " Ah, well, that I'll grant.

As a comrade, my widow's seductively sprightly;
Nature made her, and then made no more;
Hours of transport I spend in her company nightly;

Oh to be lovely in the time of flowers
When all the earth is bridal to the sun!
And to go golden, heedless of the hours,
Free to be captured, jubilant to be won!
Surely 'tis sweet upon a summer's day
To be with all things blooming in accord.
Oh to go lovely in the month of May;
To be adorable! To be adored!

Love is not lovelier than when the heart
Stirs with the bluet's first awakening
To the tenderest tip-toeing in of spring.
And love from beauty may not keep apart
When once the iris whispers to the rose —

Now I remember Guinever the queen
And Launcelot whose love was a despair.
Young Tristan's passion " for Iseult the Fair,
Elaine the good, and Doette the serene.
But oh, to look into your eyes of green
Is to see Lais langorous in her lair,
Phryne's pale lovers tangled in your hair,
Mad for her mouth while on your lips they lean.

All the perilous beauty I have known
Or glimpsed in volumes of a high romance
Move in your shadow, quicken in your glance,
Plead through your body, languish, and make moan,

At dewy Dawn,
As o'er the Lawn,
Young Roger early stray'd,
He chanced to meet
With Jenny sweet,
The blooming Country Maid.
Her Cheeks so red
With Blushes spread
Shew'd like the breaking Day.
Her modest Look
The Shepherd took;
She stole his Heart away.

With tender Air,
He woo'd the Fair,
And movingly addrest;
For Love divine,
Can Clowns refine,
And warm the coldest Breast;
Her Eyes he prais'd,
And fondly gaz'd

O, bliss! where hearts are all aflame
With love far deeper than a name,
Where speech from hearts so sweetly slips,
In loving words and touch of lips,
Where rise and find a transient rest,
The noblest passion of the breast,
I fain would dwell if not for aye,
At least on each Thanksgiving day.
O, love! wherever love is found
In all this toilsome world around
In ache and woe and endless strife
Thou art the balm in human life,
That maketh possible to bear
Our mingled load of joy and care.
No lot can wholly cheerless be,

You ask for summer instead of cold weather,
But that can never be,
The passion that once so bound us together,
Forever is dead in me.

O yes! I loved and sought to discover
To you my heart's distress,
But the love you cheaply gave to another,
Turned mine to bitterness.

It is now too late; and past forever
The time to gather in
The ties of love and bind together,
The life that might have been.

A song for old man Thurman,
And sing it clear and strong.
His life has been a sermon,
Now let it be a song.
And this shall be its burthen,
To give us greatest joy —
He calls his old wife " Sweetheart, "
And loves her like a boy.

There is no fairer story
In all our nation's life;
No better, purer glory
In all its peace and strife.
True is that man, and steadfast,
Fine gold, with no alloy,
Who calls his old wife " Sweetheart, "
And loves her like a boy!

Who cares for his position

The golden-rod was flaming bright,
The autumn day was fine,
The air was soft and scented with
The purple muscadine.

We travelled far a wooded path,
The sky was bright above
And all things seemed to smile and breathe
A blessing on our love.

O! sweet and dreamy was that face,
Such tenderness expressed
In every line, and born to be,
Love burdened and caressed.

So happy in my happiness
I could not think it then,
That after parting on that day
We should not meet again.

For hope is ever found with love,

Farewell, Dearest and Best,
What matters it whether the name be Dove,
Dear-heart, and all sweet words at love's behest,
Since none can voice my love?

To stay is past my power;
Oh, love, my own Dear-heart, farewell, good-bye!
For thee I'll breathe through every passing hour,
A fond and secret sigh.

But, Dear, though it be long,
This hope 'mid distant scenes and fellow-men
Will lead me on, in solitude, or throng,
That we shall meet again.