Before Thine Altar on my bended knees,
When I remember those Thy friends that lie
Helpless and hopeless, sunk in misery,
O Christ, I love Thee, but I love not these.

Without them I may never hope to please
That friend of theirs who had no word to say
When from his side the rich man turned away.
O Christ, Thou lov'st not me. Thou lovest these!

Why is she set so far, so far above me,
— And yet not altogether raised above?
I would give all the world that she should love me,
— My soul that she should never learn to love.

No nearer to thy presence let me stand!
Fate set me in a strange and distant land!
There let my life ruNout its tranquil course,
Unchecked, as now, with every painful breath,
To feel between us a dividing force
More strong than Death!

And say not thou, “This is Love's waning hour.”
By Love's own God, I never felt his power,
The all-commanding terror of his bliss,
Never in passion's noontide loved thee more.
When I compare my former state with this,
I never loved before.

Where, thro' the starry curtains of the night,
— Soft whisp'ring breezes wake the ruddy morn,
Whose sparkling eye darts forth returning light,
— Whose golden brows refulgent beams adorn:

Where gaudy blossoms o'er the tufted vale,
Fling their soft breathings on the spicy gale,
From the lorn Nightingale on yonder spray,
In melting murmurs steals the love-fraught lay;

Stranger to joy and hopeless of relief,
— At morn's proud glow — and twilight's pensive hour,
— Her widow'd breast its plaintive song shall pour,

Tell me, Love, when I rove o'er some far distant plain,
— Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my breast?
Or will Absence subdue the keen rigours of pain,
— And the swift wing of Time bring the balsam of rest?

Shall the image of him I was born to adore ,
— Inshrin'd in my bosom my idol still prove?
Or seduced by caprice shall fine feeling no more,
— With the incense of Truth gem the altar of Love?

When I view the deep tint of the dew-dropping Rose,
— Where the bee sits enamour'd its nectar to sip;

The land of my home is flitting,
Flitting from my view;
A gale in the sails is sitting,
Toils the merry crew.
Here let my home be,
On the waters wide:
I roam with a proud heart;
Maggie's by my side;
My own love, Maggie dear,
Sitting by my side
Maggie dear, my own love,
Sitting by my side.
The wind howling o'er the billow
From the distant lea,
The storm raging'round my pillow
Brings no care to me.
Roll on ye dark waves,
O'er the troubled tide:
I heed not your anger,
Maggie's by my side;

C HO W NDASH-CHÜN TO HER HUSBAND S SU-MA H SIANG-JU

You have taken our love and turned it into coins of silver.
You sell the love poems you wrote for me,
And with the price of them you buy many cups of wine,
I beg that you remain dumb,
That you write no more poems.
For the wine does us both an injury,
And the words of your heart
Have become the common speech of the Emperor's concubines.

High state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart;
That treasure, that treasure alone
I beg for my own.
So gentle a love, so fervent a fire
My soul does inspire.
That treasure, that treasure alone
I beg for my own.

Your love let me crave,
Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing,
That empire is all I would have.

Love's my petition,
And all my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful, so faithful a lover,
So real a flame,
I'll die, I'll die, I'll die,
So give up my game.

Oh a lovely husband he was known, He loved his wife and
her alone; She reaped the harvest he had sown; She ate the meat; he
picked the bone. With mixed admirers ev'ry size, She smiled on each with
out disguise; This lovely husband closed his eyes Lest he might take her

CHORUS.

by surprise. Trot! Run! Wasn't he a handy hubby?
What Fun She could plot and plan! Not One
Other such a dandy hubby As this lovely man!

II

He answered at her least command:

I know that honour is
Because I follow it.
I know that love is
My heart does cry for it.

The sun? I dare not watch.
The stars? I was night-walker:
My friends in the high arch —
By Cranham or high Crickley.

They hurt like unsought kisses
From a love one dare
Not love — they are the water-hisses
From a cooled iron, red-bare.

Greatness? I have sailed
A boat in March daring . . .
And made a music, called
All March to my caring

Whether I made well
Or no — and Vermand knows