To be not jealous, give not love!
Rate not thy fair all fair above,
Or thou'lt be decked in green, the hue
That jealousy is bounden to.

That lily hand! Those lips of fire!
Those dewy eyes that spill desire!
Those mounds of lambent snow, may be
Found anywhere it pleaseth thee.

To turn! Then turn, and be not mad
Though all of loveliness she had:
— She hath not all of loveliness!
A store remains, wherewith to bless.

The bee, the bird, the butterfly,
And thou! Go, search with those that fly

O woman full of wiliness!
Although for love of me you pine,
Withhold your hand adventurous,
It holdeth nothing holding mine.

Look on my head, how it is grey!
My body's weakness doth appear;
My blood is chill and thin; my day
Is done, and there is nothing here.

Do not call me a foolish man,
Nor lean your lovely cheek to mine:
O slender witch, our bodies can
Not mingle now, nor any time.

Then take your mouth from mine, your hand
From mine, ah, take those lips away!
Lest thought should ripe to willing, and

" Pity, monarch of the lovely " , Quoth I, " to this stranger show! "
" If, " said she, " the heart they follow, Wretched strangers straying go " .

" Stay awhile " , quoth I; but " Prithee, Hold me " answered she " excused.
" How shall one house-reared and nurtured Bear so many a stranger's woe? "

What reck tenderlings, who couch them On imperial minever,
If the stranger's bed and pillow Thorns and pebbles be or no?

Thou, in whose tress-fetters captive Is so many a lover's soul,

Angel and woman, nearing ninety years,
We lay this amaranth flower at her feet, —
The wide world's love, — a tribute richly meet,
For mid the cannons' carnage and the spears'
She moved heroic, and the soul reveres
Her saintly ministrations, heavenly sweet;
Science to love she joined, and did entreat
Death back to life, and checked a million tears.
At Balaklava, through the dreadful camp
Miles long of maimed men, her lot was cast
Through shrieking, bleeding wrecks of sword and b
And in night hospitals, as on she passed,

(1)

She is the sky
Of the sun!
She is the dart
Of love!

She is the love
Of my heart!
She is a rune!
She is above

The women
Of the race of Eve
As the sun
Is above the moon!

(2)

Lovely and airy
The view from the hill
That looks down
Ballylea!

But no good sight
Is good, until
By great good luck
You see

The Blossom
Of the Branches
Walking towards you,
Airily!

THE LOVER SPEAKS

The gold of Evening into grayness fades;
And now the Twilight spreads her sheltering plumes
 And shields me with her shades,
 E'en as some brooding dove's
Are folded o'er her nestlings which she loves,
 Far in the forest glooms.

The crescent dreams in branches of the fir,
And o'er the woodland path the stars arise
 To light the way for her;
 The wild grass rustles near;
And then a step,—and all my heaven is here,—
 Love, with her longing eyes!

Thou most rare Brown Bird on thine Eden-tree,
All heaven-sweet to me
Cometh thy song of Love's high royalty
And Love's deep loyalty,
And Love's sweet-pleading loneliness in thee.

Our one-star yonder uttereth her light,
Her silver call to Night,
Who, wavering between the Dark and Bright,
On-cometh with timid flight,
As one that could not choose 'twixt wrong and right!

O, never was a night so dark as I!
But thou has sent a sigh
Of love, as a star would send a beam, to fly
Downward from out the sky

The Day was dying; his breath
Wavered away in a hectic gleam —
And I said, if Life's a dream, and Death
And Love and all are dreams — I'll dream.

A Mist came over the Bay
Like as a Dream would over an eye —
The Mist was white and the Dream was grey
And both contained a human cry —

The burthen whereof was " Love, "
And it filled both Mist and Dream with pain,
And the hills below and the skies above
Were touched and uttered it back again.

The Mist broke: down the rift
A kind ray shot from a holy star.

Nay, Romney, nay—I will not hear you say
Those words again: “I love you, love you, sweet!”
You are profane—blasphemous. I repeat,
You are no actor for so grand a play.

You love with all your heart? Well, that may be;
Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try
To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry—
I who have had a full bowl proffered me—

A new bowl brimming with a draught divine,
One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips?
Think you I even care to bathe my lips
With this poor sweetened water you call wine?

A cloud of crystal, veined with gold
Slow drifting in the rosy west
Is not more lovely to behold
Than thou art, — and thy father's breast,
While fond affection holds her seat,
Will keep that image of thy grace,
Thy buoyant form, thy gentle face,
Thy spirit, ever blythe and sweet, —
In frolic and in love complete!
And so, dear child, — though mountains rise
Between us, and our brooding skies
Are alien, — wheresoe'er thou art,
Thy constant home is in thy father's heart.