ON LOVE OF PRAISE

I.

Of all the springs within the mind
Which prompt her steps in Fortune's maze,
From none more pleasing aid we find,
Than from the genuine love of praise.

II.

Nor any partial, private end
Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any passion, Virtue's friend,
So like to Virtue's self appears.

III.

For who in glory can delight,
Without delight in glorious deeds?
What man a charming voice can slight,
Who courts the echo that succeeds?

IV.

But not the echo on the voice

The king is father,
And his ministers are loving mothers.
His subjects are foolish children;
They only receive what love brings.

Schooled in saving the masses,
The king feeds and guides them.
Then no one will desert this land —
This is the way to govern a country.

Peace and prosperity will prevail if each —
King, minister, and subject — lives as he should.

I

N OW I who oft have carolled of the Spring,
Must chant of Autumn and the dirgeful days;
Of windless dawns enveiled in dewy haze,
Of cloistered evenings when no sweet birds sing,
But every note of joy hath trooped and taken wing.

II

But when I saw Her first, you scarce could say
If it were Summer still, or Autumn yet.
Rather it seemed as if the twain had met,

I

I HEARD the voice of my own true love
Ripple the sunny weather.
Then away, as a dove that follows a dove,
We flitted through woods together.

II

There was not a bush nor branch nor spray
But with song was swaying and ringing.
" Let us ask of the birds what means their lay,
And what is it prompts their singing. "

III

We paused where the stichwort and speedwell grew

Since to be loved endures,
— To love is wise:
Earth hath no good but yours,
— Brave, joyful eyes:

Earth hath no sin but thine,
— Dull eye of scorn:
O'er thee the sun doth pine
— And angels mourn.

To my love I whisper, and say
Knowest thou why I love thee? — Nay:
Nay, she saith; O tell me again. —

When in her ear the secret I tell,
She smileth with joy incredible —

Ha! she is vain — O nay —
Then tell us! Nay, O nay.

But this is in my heart,
That Love is Nature's perfect art,
And man hath got his fancy hence,
To clothe his thought in forms of sense.

Fair are thy works, O man, and fair
Thy dreams of soul in garments rare,
Beautiful past compare,
Yea, godlike when thou hast the skill

What need of wit? What need of wile?
— I know your eyes are killing;
But oh! he isn't worth a smile
— Who isn't worth a shilling!
And yet, by all the gods of rhyme,
— And by your lips I swear,
Though all my love is loss of time
— And all my hope despair,
The glittering stream shall cease to stray,
— The wind refuse to rove,
All solid things shall melt away,
— Before I cease to love!

Fair Freedom shall be found in Quod,
— Stern Justice in the Quorum,
Carlile shall praise the grace of God,

As one who loving beyond words will bring
The hue and perfumes of a common rose
And trust a meadow's language to disclose
The true simplicity of offering;
Then, as he mutely gives his little, spring
Obscure slow tears that she who studies knows,
Till in some deeper knowledge both repose
And the old flower is now a useless thing.

(BOUTS-RIMeS)

They say, when the Great Prompter's hand shall ring
— Down the last curtain upon earth and sea,
— All the Good Mimes will have eternity
To praise their Author, worship love and sing;
Or to the walls of Heaven wandering
— Look down on those damned for a fretful d — — ,
— Mock them (all theologians agree
On this reward for virtue), laugh, and fling

New sulphur on the sin-incarnadined . . .
— Ah, Love! still temporal, and still atmospheric,
— — Teleologically unperturbed,
We share a peace by no divine divined,

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
—Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
—They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
—And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but taking
—Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
—Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.