love poetry

W E'VE muckle to vex us, puir sons o' a day,
As we journey along on life's wearisome way;
But what are the troubles with which we're opprest,
If Love makes our bosoms the hame o' her rest?

When Love lichts the hearthstane, there's joy in the ha',
And a sunshiny streak on ilk bosom doth fa';
The ingle blinks blither, affections increase,
And the cottage she turns to a palace o' peace.

Where'er she approaches, a' hearts grow sincere;
She hallows a' places, mak's ev'ry spot dear;

I LOVE the night when the moon streams bright
On flowers that drink the dew —
When cascades shout as the stars peep out,
From boundless fields of blue;
But dearer far than moon or star,
Or flowers of gaudy hue,
Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills,
I love, I love, love — you!

I love to stray at the close of day,
Through groves of forest-trees,
When gushing notes from song-birds' throats
Are vocal in the breeze.
I love the night — the glorious night —
When hearts beat warm and true;

Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,

AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH NATION.

Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;
Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd
Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword;

THE SOUL THAT WAS SHROUDED .

I.

The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark night
A peace-promising beam woke to gladness and light;
And the lute, that so long lorn and tuneless had hung,
Once more with the wild notes of melody rung!

II.

Ah! why did that beam only shine to beguile, —
Ah! why did it teach the fond mourner to smile?
Why faithlessly grant him a seeming reprieve,
Then leave him in sadness still deeper to grieve?

III.

AND DOST THOU LOVE THE LYRE ?

I.

And dost thou love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire?
Ah! beware the spell,
Some have proved too well,
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!

II.

For genius is only a dream,
An ignis fatuus gleam,
That just lends its light;
But — when sorrow's night
Is deepest — withdraws its beam, Mary!

III.

'Tis a passionate sense refined,

LEIGH HUNT .

Despite misfortune, poverty, the dearth
Of simplest justice to his heart and brain, —
This gracious Optimist lived not in vain;
Rather, he made a partial Heaven of Earth;
For whatsoe'er of pure and cordial birth
In body or soul, dawned on him, he was fain
To bless and love, as an immortal gain,
A thing divine, of fair immaculate worth: —
The clearest, cleanest nature given to man
In these, our latter days, methinks was his,

(Lowell)

Dead he lies at Elmwood,
Who sang of human fortitude;
Who voiced the higher, clearer way
By which all nobler spirits may
Rise to the rims of God's pure light
Over the edges of earth's night;
Who sang of manhood's highest best,
Like some sweet Arnold of the West,
With more of kinship in his blood
With the great struggling human brood.
With more of lyric in his note,
More of the clarion in his throat,
Tuned to the brawnier West,

Upon a Diamond Cross,

WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.

Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear
The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven;
For trust me, tho' so very young and fair,
Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven: —
For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread,
For all the sighs which countless charms can move,
Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;
Yet fall they gently — for the crime is love.

Sister, sweet sister, years have passed away,
Since first, 'mid warm hearts, sunny, frank and true,
I commenced rhyming on thy natal day,
On the green sod where Erin's shamrock grew.

'Twas in that age that ne'er returns again,
Whose tears are but as dew on Summer flowers;
And young, warm hearts beat kindly round us then,
And eyes beamed brightly, answering love to ours.

And now an exile from my native land,
Thinking of well remembered, loved Grace Hill,
To mine own sister verses I will send,

Who is the maid with silken hair
By clear Maine Water roaming?
For the fairy Queen is not so fair
As she in the lonely gloaming.

It is sweet Mysie of Bellee,
John Millar's lovely daughter;
She is waiting where the old elm tree
Droops over the sweet Maine Water.

" The trysting time has come and past,
The day is fast declining;
Oh my true love, are you coming fast,
For the star of love is shining? "

" The moon is bright, the ford is safe,
The market folks crossed over;