You see this rose,
Its calyx, its petals?
Since fair it shows
Could you forget, all's
Well with your heart to the heart's confusion
And the mind's disjointure. What's conclusion?
Look on her blossom, half white, half pinky.
Would you choose her, the choice yours, think ye?

Or if, depressed

The drowsy glade, all mellowed by the moon,
Lavished its fragrance through the midnight air;
The breeze was suave and languorous with June,
Nature and I waited thy coming there!

I watched the crimson of the roses, strewn
As if to carpet thee love's pathway rare,
And listened to thy signal, that soft tune
Once lulled within the great heart of Schubert!

I heard thy footfall; — joy hath one surprise
Death can not conquer with its cruel power.
The starry scraps of Heaven within thine eyes
Still light my soul in that delicious hour

O SILVER bird, fly down, fly down,
Bring thy fair gifts to him and me:
A purse contains a minted crown,
A golden ring for me.
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

But upon the highest bough
See amid the leaves he swings,
Pipes three notes of laughter low,
Flirts, and folds his flashy wings.
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

What is't, bird, thy soul demands?
Come, I'll rock thee in my breast;
I will stroke thee with my hands;
Where none rested thou shalt rest. . . .
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

Sweet enslaver of the heart,
Radiant spirit born above,
Who can tell us what thou art,
Winning, wildering, witching love?

Hope and memory, care and thought,
Joy and sorrow, fear and pain,
All mysteriously inwrought
Are the linklets of thy chain.

Giver of our earliest breath;
Soother when our hearts are riven;
Mourner by the bed of death;
Porter at the gate of Heaven:

Dweller by the cottage hearth;
Ruler in the palace bower;
Holiest gift of Heaven to earth,
How transcendent is thy power!

In its deep essence, genius means but worth;
For who would paint the various qualities
Of man and nature, trace their growth and birth,
Must make their being his by sympathies,
Whose root is love. Thus, genius in the bad
Is still the reflex of a better life
There lingering, though with splendour shorn and sad.
Love draws the circle of imagination,
And in the heart's full day the wide creation
Lies clear, in beauty garb'd, with meaning rife;
And as love's sun declines, so fancy's ken
Contracts, and the mean will doth only crave

I.

Be Friend or Foe,
More Kindness show,
Or show me yet more kind Disdain;
 Your Torturing Indifference,
  Worse than your Scorn,
  Is to be born,
 My Passion does to Rage Incense;
To make us, of your Mercy, more complain,
When constant Cruelty wou'd end our Pain:

II.

  If I must Die,
  Kill suddenly,
If Sentence on my Life must pass;
 I, by more Grief, more Ease shall gain,
  Dispatch in Love,
  As Death will prove,
 But much more Pity, as more Pain;
More Cruelty, more Mercy were, and Grace,

Where is thy home, love? Where bright skies are flinging
Rich, mellow light over tropical bowers,
Where glad birds of beautiful plumage are singing
And butterflies wooing the odorous flowers;
Where the soft south wind strays,
And palm leaves quiver,
Through the long pleasant days,
By some bright river —
Is thy home there?

Where is thy home, love? Where true men are braving
Danger and death on the red battle-plain;
Where, in the cannon's smoke, banners are waving,
And the wild war-horse is trampling the slain;

I.

Why still, such Swearing, Fawning, Lying,
Talking of Killing, and no Dying?
Looking so sad, her Smiles to gain,
Thinking her Pity more to move,
More to compel her to Disdain,
And gain her Scorn instead of Love:

II.

With sensless Speeches, scurvy Faces,
To get a Proud, Young Maid's good Graces;
Like Beggars you, by th' Canting Tone,
With which you'd gain her Charity,
Provoke her more, to show you none,
And make your Pray'r her Grant deny:

III.

Her Pity for you, less Provoking,

My Love and Wit, at once to show,
Verse, without Gold, I send you now;
He can't be, for a Wit allow'd
Who, with his Gold, with which he wou'd
Make his Dame Humble, makes her Proud;
Makes her more Rich, himself more Poor,
To make her scorn his Love yet more;
Then, with our Gold, or Gems, to part,
To gain a Mistress's Proud Heart,
Wou'd our Design on her prevent,
So prove our Wit's Disparagement;
By what we'd make our Dame more sure,
More Rivals in her to procure;
Make her the greater Fortune so,
That more might her Pretenders grow,

With me, Dear Celia , do not thou find fau't,
For Jealousie, by which, I've only thought
Worse of my self, as better still of thee,
Who think thee but too great a Good, to be
Engross'd still, by so mean a Wretch as me;
Who, but less shou'd, my Value for you prove,
To think I were the sole, who thee cou'd Love,
Or th' only, who cou'd thee, to Liking move;
Since my Love, more sure, wou'd wrong thine, and thee,
To think, none else cou'd Love thee well, but me;
And if that others Love you, as I do,
Unjust, Ungrateful, must I think you too,