Not that Queen Venus of adulterous fame,
Whose love was lust's insatiable flame—
Not hers the house I would be singer in
Whose loose-lipped servants seek a weary sin:
But mine the Venus of that morning flood
With all the dawn's young passion in her blood,
With great blue eyes and unpressed bosom sweet
Her would I sing, and of the shy retreat
Where Love first kissed her wondering maidenhood,
And He and She first stood, with eyes afraid,
In the most golden House that God has made.

Sweet is the solace of thy love,
My heavenly Friend, to me,
While through the hidden way of faith
I journey home with thee,
Learning by quiet thankfulness
As a dear child to be.

Oft in a dark and lonely place
I hush my hastened breath,
To hear the comfortable words
Thy loving Spirit saith;
And feel my safety in thy hand
From every kind of death.

O there is nothing in the world
To weigh against thy will;
E'en the dark times I dread the most
Thy covenant fulfil;
And when the pleasant morning dawns,
I find thee with me still.

Homer, best of bards we're told,
Says that Love is all of gold;
So if we can pay Love's fee
Doors will open easily,
Porters hurry at your call,
Watch-dogs trouble not at all;
But if you've no gold to pay
Cerberus will bar your way;
Greed is money's rule, my boy,
To rob a poor man of his joy.

O TENDER love of long ago,
O buried love, so near me still,
On tides of thought that ebb and flow,
Beyond the empire of the will;
To-night with mingled joy and pain
I fold thee to my heart again.

And down the meadows, dear, we stray,
And under woods still clothed in green,
Though many Springs have passed away
And many harvests there have been,
Since through the youth-enchanted land
We wandered idly hand in hand.

Then every brook was loud with song,
And every tree was stirred with love,
And every breeze that passed along

You pleasant floury meade
Which I did once well love
Your pathes no more I'le tread
Your pleasures noe more prove
Your beauty more admire
Your coulers more adore
Nor gras with daintiest store
Of sweets to breed desire;

Walks once soe sought for now
I shunn you for the darcke,
Birds to whose song did bow
My eares your notes nere mark;
Brooke which soe pleasing was
Upon whose banks I lay,
And on my pipe did play
Now, unreguarded pass;

Meadowes, pathes, grass, flouers
Walkes, birds, brooke, truly finde

Love, and Reason once att warr
Jove came downe to end the jarr;
Cupid said love must have place
Reason that itt was his grace.

Jove then brought itt to this end:
Reason should on love attend
Love takes reason for his guid
Reason can nott from love slide.

This agreed, they pleasd did part
Reason ruling Cupids dart
Soe as sure love can nott miss
Since that reason ruler is.

Love thy powerfull hand withdraw,
All doe yeeld unto thy law;
Rebells now thy subjects bee,
Bound they are who late were free,
Most confess thy power, and might,
All harts yeeld unto thy right;
Thoughts directed ar by thee,
Souls doe strive thy joys to see;
Pitty then, and mercy give
Unto them wher you doe live;
They your images doe prove,
In them may you see great love;
They your mirours, you theyr eye
By which they true love doe spy.
Cease awhile theyr cruell smarts
And beehold theyr yeelding harts;
Greater glory 'tis to save

O, THE LOVELY RIVERS and lakes of Maine!
I am charmed with their names, as my song will explain;
Aboriginal muses inspire my strain,
While I sing the bright rivers and lakes of Maine—
From Cupsuptic to Cheputmatticook,
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook—
'gamook, 'gamook,
Pohenegamook,
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook.

For light serenading the “Blue Moselle,”
“Bonnie Doon” and “Sweet Avon” may do very well;
But the rivers of Maine, in their wild solitudes,
Bring a thunderous sound from the depth of the woods:
The Aroostook and Chimmenticook,

Some love is light and fleets away,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Some love is deep and scorns decay,
Ah, well-a-day! in vain.

Of loyal love I sing this lay,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
'Tis of a knight and lady gay,
Ah! well-a-day! bright twain.

He loved her—heart loved ne'er so well,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
She was a cold and proud damsel,
Ah, well-a-day! and vain.

He loved her—oh, he loved her long,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
But she for love gave bitter wrong,
Ah, well-a-day! Disdain!

Where is that Learned Wretch that knows
What are those Darts the Veyl'd God throws?
O let him tell me ere I dye
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the Sparrows Plumes, or Doves,
Wing them for various Loves;
And whether Gold, or Lead,
Quicken, or dull the Head:
I will annoint and keep them warm,
And make the Weapons heale the Harm.

Fond that I am to aske! who ere
Did yet see thought? or Silence hear?
Safe from the search of humane Eye
These Arrows (as their waies are) flie:
The Flights of Angels part