Lord, 'tis a heav'n of joy and love
To feel thy gracious presence here!
And 'twill be heav'n complete above,
When we thy perfect likeness bear,
And see thy truth all glorious shine,
Replete with rays of love divine.

All honour to thy name alone,
And thanks, eternal thanks be giv'n,
For thou hast brought sweet mercy down,
And rais'd our hearts and hopes to heaven
And thou alone can'st keep our feet,
Till safe around thy throne we meet.

Still let thy grace sufficient prove,
To guide us on in wisdom's ways;
To mould us by redeeming love,

The fragrant pines are green, love,
The pines are fair and tall;
Dear is the Alpine scene, love,
Peak, flower, and waterfall;
But my heart's tendrils lean, love,
To humbler pines at home,
For there the feet have been, love,
That never learned to roam.
One day about the wood, dear,
Thy steps began to go,
And all my stony mood, dear,
Was moved to happy flow;
But when they ceased from pleasure
Upon the woodland floor,
Silence in deeper measure
Than e'er was known before
Returned for evermore, dear,
For evermore.

The star of love now shines above,
Cool zephyrs crisp the sea;
Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves
Its serenade for thee.
The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,
Their minstrelsy unite,
But all are drear till thou appear
To decorate the night.

The light of noon streams from the moon,
Though with a milder ray;
O'er hill and grove, like woman's love,
It cheers us on our way.
Thus all that's bright—the moon, the night,
The heavens, the earth, the sea,
Exert their powers to bless the hours
We dedicate to thee.

The very atoms of the air
Seem warmed and stirring everywhere;
The sky with golden light suffused:
The earth grown bright with dawn unused;
I hear in waves of carolings
The sound of kisses, sweep of wings;
I close mine eyes,—what happens there?—
—The passing-by of Love the fair!—

I KNOW not, wherefore, dearest love,
Thou often art so strange and coy!
When 'mongst man's busy haunts we move,
Thy coldness puts to flight my joy.
But soon as night and silence round us reign,
I know thee by thy kisses sweet again!

How can one e'er be sure
If true love will endure?
My thoughts this morning are
As tangled as my hair.

Fie, fie on blind fancy,
It hinders youth's joy:
Fair virgins, learn by me,
To count love a toy.
When Love learned first the A B C of delight,
And knew no figures, nor conceited phrase,
He simply gave to due desert her right,
He led not lovers in dark winding ways,
He plainly willed to love, or flatly answered no;
But now who lists to prove, shall find it nothing so.
Fie, fie then on fancy,
It hinders youth's joy:
Fair virgins, learn by me,
To count love a toy.
For since he learned to use the poet's pen,

Where every Female delights to give her maiden to her husband:
The Female searches sea & land for gratifications to the
Male Genius, who in return clothes her in gems & gold
And feeds her with the food of Eden; hence all her beauty beams.
She Creates at her will a little moony night & silence
With Spaces of sweet gardens & a tent of elegant beauty,
Closed in by a sandy desart & a night of stars shining
And a little tender moon & hovering angels on the wing;
And the Male gives a Time & Revolution to her Space

I am to follow her. There is much grace
In women when thus bent on martyrdom.
They think that dignity of soul may come,
Perchance, with dignity of body. Base!
But I was taken by that air of cold
And statuesque sedateness, when she said
"I'm going"; lit a taper, bowed her head,
And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold.
Fleshly indifference horrible! The hands
Of Time now signal: O, she's safe from me!
Within those secret walls what do I see?
Where first she set the taper down she stands:
Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as death

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings out friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds