The Merry Gallant girds his sword,
And dons his helm in mickle glee!
He leaves behind his lady love
For tented fields and deeds which prove
Stout hardiment and constancy.

When round him rings the din of arms, —
The notes of high-born chivalry,
He thinks not of his bird in bower,
And scorns to own Love's tyrant power
Amid the combats of the Free.

Yet in the midnight watch, I trow,
When cresset lights all feebly burn,
Will hermit Fancy sometimes roam
With eager travel back to home,

" THERE 's not a power in stern philosophy
Sufficient to control this eating grief,
No mortal circumstance can bring relief — "
This was my constant cry — " Ah wretched me!
Beyond the passing hour I nothing see,
But the dead flower, sour fruit, and blasted leaf,
And all the haggard shapes of misery,
With haunting care, life's ever-present thief."
Thus as I sorrowed — 'twas the year's fresh prime —
I saw a form born of the heaven and earth,
Clad in unparalleled grace, defying time
With her rich loveliness, that made a dearth

To thee, Sennuccio! fearless I can paint
The habit of a life that shuns repose:
My heart with its accustom'd passion glows; —
'Tis Laura's yet; — nor strong my hopes, nor faint,
But varied ever — as that lovely Saint
In light or shade my fond attachment throws.
Her delicacy's temper'd sweetness knows
The charm which no mis-construing thought can taint;
Which blames, and yet approves: — to-day , the soft
Endearments reign — the Loves their influence breathe;
To morrow , distant and reserv'd her air —

P RIEST

Awake, it is Love's radiant hour of praise!
Bring new-blown leaves his temple to adorn,
Pomegranate-buds and ripe sirisha -sprays,
Wet sheaves of shining corn.

P ILGRIM

O priest! only my broken lute I bring
For Love's praise-offering!

P RIEST

Behold! the hour of sacrifice draws near.
Pile high the gleaming altar-stones of Love
With delicate burdens of slain woodland deer

OH ! If my Mind
Should be inclin'd,
This would Increase my Fear:
Lord, from above,
Thou God of Love,
Reveal thy Counsel near;
That I may know,
That I may do
Thy Ever-Blessed Will:
Ah, thine alone,
And not mine own,
Great King! Do thou fulfil.

Two hands are we to serve thee, O our Mother,
To strive and succour, cherish and unite;
Two feet are we to cleave the waning darkness,
And gain the pathways of the dawning light.

Two years are we to catch the nearing echo,
The sounding cheer of Time's prophetic horn;
Two eyes are we to reap the crescent glory,
The radiant promise of renascent morn.

One heart are we to love thee, O our Mother,
One undivided, indivisible soul,
Bound by one hope, one purpose, one devotion
Towards a great, divinely-destined goal.

O Love! do you know the spring is here
With the lure of her magic flute? ...
The old earth breaks into passionate bloom
At the kiss of her fleet, gay foot.
The burgeoning leaves on the almond boughs,
And the leaves on the blue wave's breast
Are crowned with the limpid and delicate light
Of the gems in your turban-crest.
The bright pomegranate buds unfold,
The frail wild lilies appear,
Like the blood-red jewels you used to fling
O'er the maidens that danced at the feast of spring
To welcome the new-born year.

O Love! were you a basil-wreath to twine among my tresses,
A jewelled clasp of shining gold to bind around my sleeve,
O Love! were you the keora's soul that haunts my silken raiment,
A bright, vermilion tassel in the girdles that I weave;

O Love! were you the scented fan that lies upon my pillow,
A sandal lute, or silver lamp that burns before my shrine,
Why should I fear the jealous dawn that spreads with cruel laughter,
Sad veils of separation between your face and mine?

Haste, O wild-bee hours, to the gardens of the sunset!

He

Lift up the veils that darken the delicate moon of thy glory and grace,
Withhold not, O Love, from the night of my longing the joy of thy luminous face,
Give me a spear of the scented keora guarding thy pinioned curls,
Or a silken thread from the fringes that trouble the dream of thy glimmering pearls;
Faint grows my soul with thy tresses' perfume and the song of thy anklet's caprice,
Revive me, I pray, with the magical nectar that dwells in the flower of thy kiss.

She

Ho! Flesh and Blood! sweet Flesh and Blood
As ever strode on earth!
Welcome to Water and to Wood —
To all a Madman's mirth.
This tree is mine, this leafless tree
That's writhen o'er the linn;
The stream is mine that fitfully
Pours forth its sullen din.
Their lord am I; and still my dream
Is of this Tree — is of that Stream.

The Tree, the Stream — a deadly Twain!
They will not live apart;
The one rolls thundering through my brain,
The other smites my heart:
Ay, this same leafless fire-scathed tree,