Beloved, the briefest words are best;
And all the fine euphonious ways
In which the truth has been expressed
Since Adam's early Eden days,
Could never match the simple phrase, —
Sweetheart, I love you!

If I should say the world were blank
Without your face; if I should call
The stars to witness, rank on rank,
That I am true, although they fall, —
'T would mean but this, — and this means all, —
Sweetheart, I love you!

And so, whatever change is wrought
By time or fate, delight or dole,

My Fair's unkind, and I have spent my pains,
And purchas'd nothing but undue disdains.
Oh had she been as kind as I was true,
What praise to her, what joy to me'd been due?
But to my grief and her disgrace, I find
That fair ones too much lov'd, prove seldom kind,
What then, shall loving less be my revenge?
O no, I wrong my judgment if I change —
The dice are cast, and let her loathe or love,
I may unhappy, not inconstant prove,
For it is quite impossible for me,
To love her less, as more in love to be.

I have in life but wishes three:
The first is realized in thee;

The second you can surely guess —
Sweet presents sent from Heaven to bless;

The third some sweet and quiet nook,
To read the leaves of Nature's book.

I could not make my wishes four —
Love, children, home — Earth has no more.

1849.

When all the hills were rich with gold,
And beauty bloomed on every tree,
One darling more was in the fold,
One treasure more upon the knee.

1866.

When all the fields were white with snow,
And seventeen Autumns passed away,
By Merry Christmas fireside glow
We met that winter holiday.

1870.

Far in the Southland warm and blest
Dwells the Queen whom we love the best.
There, by a wealth of luxurious gold
Swathed and sheltered from harm and cold,
In a budding beauty that never dies,
Slumber a thousand blooms divine;
And some are ruddy as evening skies,
And some in a flaming crimson shine.
Through the gladsome round of the circling hours
The goddess walks in her gay parterre,
And they grow more lovely, the lovely flowers,
At the very thought of her presence there.
Crocus and hyacinth, lily and rose,

My temperate style at first
With comic groans did greet,
And tho' the entry seemed sour,
The latest act was sweet.
Now tragic trumpets blow,
And sorrowing sounds unsought;
Unto my Muse's mourning mouth,
A wail again is wrought.

Before — alternate joys
Did promise some relief,
Now — care and love conspir'd in one
Have swol'n my endless grief.
So that I see no sole
Companion of my pains,
Unless it be those wretched ones
Which Pluto's reign retains.

And yet they must confess
My grief their grief exceeds;

Young monster! born with teeth, that thus canst bite
So deep, canst wound all sorts at ten and eight;
Fierce Scythian brat! young Tamerlane! the Gods'
Great scourge! that kickst all men like skulls and clods;
Rough creature! born for terror; whose stern look,
Few strings and muscles mov'd, is a whole book
Of biting satires; who did thee beget?
Or with what pictures was the curtains set?
John of the Wilderness? the hairy child?
The hispid Thisbite? or what Satyr wild,
That thou thus satirisest? Storm of wit,

(Earlier Version)

Like lights that pass, each motion of the mind
Flies through the world, seeking its fellow thought;
And if but in the twinkling of his days
A man shall chance to meet the kindred one —
Then happiness! No more he needs to burn
Beside the fire of dearth that pipe, whose smoke
Prays to the heedless stars of lonely men.

Then in a rare and wonderful abode
Where wit comes not, and thinking has no part,
A tender comedy is played and played,
That holds the magic meaning of the spheres,

Friend, whose smile has come to be
Very precious unto me,
Though I know I drank not first
Of your love's bright fountain-burst,
Yet I grieve not for the past,
So you only love me last!

Other souls may find their joy
In the blind love of a boy:
Give me that which years have tried,
Disciplined and purified, —
Such as, braving sun and blast,
You will bring to me at last!

There are brows more fair than mine,
Eyes of more bewitching shine,
Other hearts more fit, in truth,
For the passion of your youth;

I.

Alex. There sighs not on the Plain
So lost a Swain as I;
Scorcht't up with Love, frozen with Disdain.
Of killing Sweetness I complain.
Streph. If 'tis Corinna , die.

II.

Since first my dazled Eyes were thrown
On that bewitching Face,
Like ruin'd Birds, rob'd of their Young,
Lamenting, frighted, and alone,
I fly from place to place.

III.

Fram'd by some Cruel Powers above,