O YOU , that dwell where shepherds reign,
Arcadian youths, Arcadian maids,
To pastoral pipe who danc'd the plain;
Why pensive now beneath the shades?

Approach her virgin tomb, they cry,
Behold the verse inscrib'd above,
Once too in Arcady was I, —
Behold what dreams are life and love!

A lecture to be mild in love

Whilst that in bleating flocks of snow
The Dounes are clad the meads below
With various heards all covered be
When from the yoak their necks are free.

And all the fields by Ceres blest
Are turnd to ears that never rest
Each naked wood anew receives
A fresh light canopy of leavs.

Under whose secret brainches quires
Of winged singers stirr up fires
Of action whilst the purling spring
Quenches not, but adds fuelling.

The kisses wanton Zephirs threw
O'th'Corn, o'th'leavs o'th'morning dew

I am Raftery the poet, full of hope and love; my eyes without light, my gentleness without misery. Going west on my journey with the light of my heart; weak and tired to the end of my road. I am now, and my back to a wall, playing music to empty pockets.

I LOVE thee — none may know how well,
And yet — I would not have thee love me,
To thy good heart 'twere very hell,
To love me dear, and not approve me.

Whate'er thou lov'st it is not thine ,
But 'tis thyself — then sad it were, love,
If thou for every sin of mine,
Should weep, repent, mayhap, despair — love.

Then love me not — thou can'st not scorn,
And mind — I do not bid thee hate me,
And if I die, oh, do not mourn,
But if I live, do new create me.

Sighing softly to the river
Comes the loving breeze,
Setting nature all a-quiver,
Rustling through the trees!
And the brook in rippling measure
Laughs for very love,
While the poplars, in their pleasure,
Wave their arms above!
River, river, little river,
May thy loving prosper ever.
Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,
May thy wooing happy be!

Yet, the breeze is but a rover,
When he wings away,
Brook and poplar mourn a lover!
Sighing well-a-day!
Ah, the doing and undoing
That the rogue could tell!

What can a poor man do but love and pray?
But if his love be selfish, then his prayer,
Like noisome vapour melts in vacant air.
I am a debtor, and I cannot pay.
The alms which drop upon the public way, —
The casual tribute of the good and fair,
With the keen, thriftless avarice of despair
I seize, and live thereon from day to day,
Ingrate and purposeless. — And yet not so:
The mere mendicity of self contempt
Has not so far debased me, but I know
The faith, the hope, the piety, exempt
From worldly doubt, to which my all I owe.

A BOAT unmoored, wherein a dreamer lies,
The slumberous waves low-lisping of a land
Where Love, forever with unclouded eyes,
Goes, wed with wandering Music, hand in hand.

How long, O Lord, how long
These penal fires among?
— Till love with fiercer flame
The strength of torture tame.

Nay , be not June, nor yet December, dear,
But April always, as I find thee now:
A constant freshness unto me be thou,
And not the ripeness that must soon be sere.
Why should I be Time's dupe, and wish more near
The sobering harvest of thy vernal vow?
I am content, so still across thy brow
Returning smile chase transitory tear.
Then scatter thy April heart in sunny showers;
I want nor Summer drouth nor Winter sleet:
As Spring be fickle, so thou be as sweet;
With half-kept promise tantalise the hours;

I HEARD one cry out strongly, " Love is dead! "
And then we went and looked upon his face,
Turned into marble by Death's final grace:
His silent lips, that once so vainly pled,
Smile now, as men smile being newly wed;
Since some strange joy Life's sorrows did efface
When Death's arms clasped him in supreme embrace,
All his long pain of living comforted.

And you would wake him? Dare you him recall
From Death's enamouring to Life's stern pain;
Make him again the old grief's hopeless thrall;
Bind him once more with the old clanking chain,