love poems for her

AS WEET CONTENTION BETWEEN L OVE, HIS Mistress AND B EAUTY

L OVE and my Mistress were at strife
Who had the greatest power on me;
Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
Nay, what a death is this to be!

She said, she did it with her eye;
He said, he did it with his dart;
Betwixt them both (Asilly wretch!)
'Tis I that have the wounded heart

She said, she only spake the word
That did enchant my peering sense;
He said, he only gave the sound
That enter'd heart without defence

*****

In loving arms enraptured rest,
Ye whom the joys of life enthral;
A single glance my lot hath blest,
Yet makes me rich beyond you all!

The joys of earth I hold but light,
And, like the martyr, upward gaze;
For o'er me in the distance bright
Its open portals heav'n displays.

In truth is trust, distrust not then my truthe
Let vertue liue. I aske no greater love;
Of suche regarde, repentance not ensuthe,
And hope of heavne doth highest hono r p've.

In truthe sume time it was a sweete conceite
To see how loue and life dyd dwell togeth er ;
But now in truthe there is so muche deceite
That truth in deede is gone I know not whether.

Yitt liueth truthe and hath her secrett loue,

J USI as the dawn of Love was breaking
Across the weary world of grey,
Just as my life once more was waking
As roses waken late in May,
Fate, blindly cruel and havoc-making,
Stepped in and carried you away.

Memories have I none in keeping
Of times I held you near my heart,
Of dreams when we were near to weeping
That dawn should bid us rise and part;
Never, alas, I saw you sleeping
With soft closed eyes and lips apart,

Breathing my name still through your dreaming. —

Oh , that my blood were water, thou athirst,
And thou and I in some far Desert land,
How would I shed it gladly, if but first
It touched thy lips, before it reached the sand.

Once, — Ah, the Gods were good to me, — I threw
Myself upon a poison snake, that crept
Where my Beloved — a lesser love we knew
Than this which now consumes me wholly — slept.

But thou; Alas, what can I do for thee?
By Fate, and thine own beauty, set above
The need of all or any aid from me,
ToOhigh for service, as too far for love.

Weep not, my Bride! to be my bride,
Say not that love is o'er,
That joy with maiden-hood has died,
And thou'lt be wooed no more!
I'll love thee, husband like, my bride,
And like a lover woo beside!

The roebuck loves the mountain steep,
The cushat loves the glen,
The eagle loves his craggy keep,
Her russet hedge the wren:
But dearer far I'll love my bride,
Whatever weal or woe betide!

The wild bee loves the heather-bell,
The blossom loves the tree,
The daisy loves the spring-time well,

Taken from the Second Volume of Montagne's Essays.

I.

Stay , stay, thou lovely, fearful Snake,
Nor hide thee in yon darksome Brake:
But let me oft thy Charms review,
Thy glittering Scales, and golden Hue;
From these a Chaplet shall be wove,
To grace the Youth I dearest love.

II.

Then Ages hence, when thou no more,
Shalt creep along the sunny Shore,
Thy copy'd Beauties shall be seen;
Thy Red and Azure mix'd with Green,
In mimic Folds thou shalt display: —

All human Race, from China to Peru .
Pleasure, howe'er disguis'd by Art, pursue;
In various Habits this fair Idol dress,
Yet still adore her, still her Power confess;
She leads pale Hermits to the mossy Cell,
And to the Box the Fop-encircled Belle;
The Shape of Business, nay of Virtue takes,
Presides alike o'er Aldermen and Rakes;
Admirers boasts in every various Rank,
Sends some to Bagnios, others to the Bank;
Now dwells in lofty Domes and trophy'd Halls,
Now near dark Woods and pensive Water-falls;

What is a ghost? " It is something white,
(And I guess it goes barefooted, too,)
That comes from the graveyard in the night,
When the doors are lock'd, and breaks right through. "
What does it do?

" Oh, it frightens people ever so much,
And goes away when the chickens crow;
And — doesn't steal any spoons, or touch
One thing that is n't its own, you know. "
Who told you so?

" Somebody — every body, almost;

TO THE SAME

I thought that I could ever happy be,
Married to meditation, and my lyre,
Charming the moments on with melody
That fills the ear with musical desire;
But now far other thoughts my breast inspire;
I find no happiness in poesy;
Within my soul burns a diviner fire,
For now my heart is full of love and Thee!
Yet 'tis a melancholy thing to love,
When Fate or Expectation shuts the door,
When all the mercy I can hope, above
Mere friendship, is thy pity, — and no more,
For who could love a being such as me,