love poetry

A Poem.

M Y muse of Thirsis sings, and of the shade,
Where he, poor shepherd, with his Daphne stray'd:
On D UNSMORE waste, there stands a shady grove,
The sweet recess of solitude and love;
Hazles on this, on that side elms are seen,
To shade the verdant path that leads between.
A rose, less lovely than young Thirsis gay,
Adorns the sprig that bends across the way;
The way that does with various flow'rs abound,
The gentle shepherd cast his eyes around;

The Bard

A H me! but I'm sorry,
And with worry I'm sore,
I am powerless to state
What my fate is each hour.
What but my heart's anguish
Makes me languish such wise?
With the love that I've loved her,
Ne'er above it I'll rise.

The Crone

Silence, rascal, deal fairly,
Untruths spare to exhale,
I will yet trust thee barely
That there's no gild-thy-tale.

Thou tyrant God of Love, give o'er,
And persecute this breast no more:
Ah! tell me why must every dart
Be aim'd at my unhappy heart?
I never murmur'd or repin'd,
But patiently myself resign'd
To all the torments, which through thee
Have fell, alas! on wretched me:
But Oh! I can no more sustain
This long continued state of pain,
Though 'tis but fruitless to complain.
My heart, first soften'd by thy power,
Ne'er kept its liberty an hour:
So fond and easy was it grown,
Each nymph might call the fool her own:

Path driver, wind thy tender horn
When any vessel passes!
There's one we sometimes hail at morn,
Bright with her Captain's lassies;
Then sound this note, as Past we move
And break my flag above us!
How small the world before we love,
How great, with one to love us!

The tame canal is sometimes dull —
Not so when Polly meets me;
Her head and neck are beautiful,
With what an eye she greets me!
Wind all thy horn to tell my love
What echoes tell above us:
How dull the world before we love,

If that the Favours greatest are which we
Confer most voluntary, frank, and free;
And if that Benefit we value most,
Which comes the easiest, or in Toil, or Cost,
That courteous Virgin most our Thanks demands,
Who on no Wedlock-Terms precisely stands:
And she who soonest, cheapest, grants her Love,
Does the most honourable Mistress prove:
Who nobly does on her Friend's Faith rely,
Without a Bargain, Bond, or previous Tye.

But Marriage makes the Mode of bart'ring Love

Long of soft Words the Pow'r I try'd,
To bend my Chloris 's stubborn Will;
Awake, she still my Suit deny'd,
Asleep, did ev'ry Wish fulfil:
O charming Slumber, that could prove
More kind than all the Pow'rs of Love!

With Gold I strove to tempt her Eyes,
With Love and Musick touch her Ear;
But she did ev'ry Bribe despise,
Nor would my warm Addresses hear:
Had she not slept, I still in vain

God's nature and his name we read
When we behold the Saviour bleed;
And, when we hear his dying groan,
His shame and grief explain our own!

The lustre of the holy law,
Thus honour'd fills our minds with awe
And Calvey's scenes at once reveal
More love and wrath than heav'n and hell

How pure the truth that would not spare
Thine equal, thine eternal heir!
How great the love that freely gave
Thy son thine enemies to save!

Thy just commands, by him obey'd,
In all their beauties stand display'd;

Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find
Your spirit mine; if, seeking you, life wins
New wonder, with old splendor let us bind
Our hearts when Love's high sacrament begins.

Exalt my soul with pomp and pageantry,
Sing the eternal songs all lovers sing;
Yea, when you come, gold let our vestments be,
And lamps of silver let us softly swing.

But if at last (hark how I whisper, Love!)

Wound me! Yea, break my heart, if, breaking it
Thou dost acquire mysterious delight.
Torture my spirit through an aching night,
Fill me with pain and longing exquisite,
If at the last for me thy lamp be lit,
And once again I hold thee in my sight.
Gladly I suffer, being Love's eremite;
And if I judged thee, lo! I would acquit.

For grief through thee is dearer than the bliss,
The empty glory of acclaiming men;
Count me thy vassal, if but once thy kiss
Redeem thy wrath; — then wound me, Love, again! —

There are great silences in a great love,
And fools are they who vainly strive to reach
Those shining shores beyond the verge of speech,
Where none should fare — not even the white dove
That hides forever in true lovers' souls,
And blesses them with stillness. There are deeps
That none should desecrate; jealous, Love keeps
Sure watch when passion's ocean round her rolls.

These calms are Love's hid meaning; they contain
The covenant and gospel of Love's years,
The very Bread of beauty and the Wine.