How much I love thee girl would'st know,
Better than rosin loves the bow,
Than treble shrill the growling bass,
Or spruce guitars a tawdry case.

No more then let us solo play,
To Hymen's temple jig away,
There when we get,
In a duet,
Of pleasure will we take our swing,
Joy's fiddle shall play,
Love's bells shall ring:
And while we celebrate the day,
We'll frisk away,
And laugh and play,
And dance and sing,
And frisk away like any thing.

II.

I love thee more, I really think,

I.

Why, cruel Creature! why so bent
To vex a tender heart?
To gold and title you relent,
Love throws in vain his dart.

II.

Let glitt'ring fools in courts be great,
For pay let armies move,
Beauty should have no other bait
But gentle vows and love.

III.

If on those endless charms you lay
The value that 's their due,
Kings are themselves too poor to pay,
A thousand worlds to few.

IV.

But if a passion without vice,
Without disguise or art,
Ah, Mira! if true love 's your price,

Love thy God, and love Him only:
And thy breast will ne'er be lonely.
In that one great Spirit meet
All things mighty, grave and sweet.
Vainly strives the soul to mingle
With a creature of our kind:
Vainly hearts with hearts are twined;
For the deepest still is single.
An impalpable resistance
Holds like natures still at distance.
Mortal! love that Holy One!
Or dwell for aye alone.

I send this ring of braided hair,
Asimple gift, to thee,
One more fond pledge of perfect trust,
And perfect peace, from me.

Thou 'lt wear it for our dear love's sake,
So fresh and pure and strong,
Far sweeter than the dreams of fame,
Of romance, or of song.

And when snows fall, or spring-flowers wave,
My cold, still breast above,
Dear, faithful heart, thou 'lt wear it then

Thou darest not love me!—thou canst only see
The great gulf set between us. Hadst thou love ,
'T would bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,
The draught thou 'st prayed for with divinest thirst,
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,
By the poor guard of danger set about it?
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked
How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice

A legend has told us that Cupid and Death
Were driven by stress of the weather,
To an inn where they reveled in mischief and fun,
And cracked a full bumper together.
But Cupid, the rogue, with the arrows of Death.
A bunch from his own quiver mingled;
Thus oft an old swain is smitten by love,
Whom Death for a victim has singled.

A sailor's love is void of art,
Plain sailing to his port, the heart,
He knows no jealous folly:

'Twere hard enough at sea to war
With boisterous elements that jar—
All's peace with lovely Polly.

II.

Enough that, far from sight of shore,
Clouds frown, and angry billows roar,
Still is he brisk and jolly:

And while carousing with his mates,
Her health he drinks—anticipates
The smiles of lovely Polly.

III.

Passive, and yet it is not passive.
There is no word to tell that droop of the head,
That turned-away rapt face, those outstretched arms:
Relinquishment, as of a woman yielding her body to love;
To the embrace of him she may nowise refuse;
Whose weakness, whose evil, whose un-love she sees,
But takes not back her faith;
Letting his will upon her be as her own will
To its utmost of asking;
Remembering — knowing as he cannot know —
The ends, the issues of love,
Yet without refusal of life or of death:

I.

When wilt thou break, my stubborn heart!
O Death! how slow to take my part!
Whatever I pursue denies;
Death, Death itself, like Mira, flies.

II.

Love and Despair, like twins, possest
At the same fatal birth my breast:
No hope could be; her scorn was all
That to my destin'd lot could fall.

III.

I thought, alas! that Love could dwell
But in warm climes, where no snow fell;
Like plants that kindly heat require
To be maintain'd by constant fire.

IV.

That without hope 't would die as soon,

See! my soul 's serene invader !
See the face , I first, ador'd!
Heaven, for love , and pity , made her,
And with angel 's graces, stor'd.

Mark her forehead 's aweful rising ,
See her soul-subduing eyes !
Every look , and air , surprizing!
Modest, lively, soft, and wise.

Next to you , I own, I love her,
But your sweet, discerning, eye,
Must not, now, be jealous of her:
She's ne'er seen , but you are by .