In vain does Hymen, with religious vows
Oblige his slaves to wear his chains with ease;
A privilege alone that Love allows,
'Tis Love alone can make our fetters please.

The angry tyrant lays his yoke on all,
Yet in his fiercest rage is charming still;
Officious Hymen comes whene'er we call,
But haughty Love comes only when he will.

All love, at first, like gen'rous wine,
Ferments and frets, until 'tis fine;
But when 'tis settled on the lee,
And from th' impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still, the older,
And proves the pleasanter, the colder.
Love is too great a happiness
For wretched mortals to possess:
For, could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of Fate,
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,
It would become a bliss too high
For perishing mortality,
Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to Heaven but love.

In a grove of ilex
Of oak and of chestnut,
Far on the sunswept
Heights of Tusculum,
There groweth a blossom,
A snow-white bloom,
Which many have heard of,
But few have seen.
Oft bright as the morning,
Oft pale as moonlight,
There in the greenness,
In shadow and sunshine
It grows, awaiting
The hand that shall pluck it:
For this blossom springeth
From the heart of a poet
And of her who loved him
In the long ago,
Here on the sunswept
Heights of Tusculum.
And them it awaiteth,
Deep lovers only,

So glides along the wanton Brook
With gentle pace into the Mayne,
Courting the bankes with amorous look
Hee never meanes to see againe:
And so doth Fortune use to Smile
Upon the short-liv'd Favourites face,
Whose swelling hopes shee will beguile,
And allwayes casts him in her race:
And so doth the fantastick Boy,
The God of the Illmanag'd flames,
Who ne're kept word in promis'd Joy
To Lover, nor to loving dames.
Soe all alike will constant prove,
Both Fortune, running-streames, and Love.

" To suffer grief is to be strong,
And to be strong is beautiful and rare " — —
'Twas in thy court, O Love, I learned it there,
This sad sweet song!

No one man dwells thy ways among,
Who shall not learn thy thousand ways of grief
Or how wild fears succeed each poor relief
In dark'ning throng:

There too a man may learn to put away

The crowned summit of his heart's desire;
But O, the bitter burning of love's fire —
Its bitterer ashes grey!

A SONG .

Beneath the myrtle's secret shade,
When Delia blest my eyes;
At first I view'd the lovely maid
In silent soft surprise.
With trembling voice and anxious mind
I softly whisper'd love;
She blush'd a smile so sweetly kind,
Did all my fears remove.
Her lovely yielding form I prest,
Sweet maddening kisses stole;
And soon her swimming eyes confest
The wishes of her soul:
In wild tumultuous bliss, I cry,
O Delia, now be kind!
She press'd me close, and with a sigh,
To melting joys resign'd.

On a flower in a forest,
A lily-bosom'd flower,
(Where never windy tempest
Came, nor ever any shower) —
A golden hour of birthtide,
(The sky was blue, so blue!)
Left me lying 'mid a songtide
Of birds of every hue.

Upon the white flower swaying
I laughed and sang in glee,
Till the thrushes long delaying
Sang back deliciously;
And the dear white cloudlets sleeping
Up in the blue, blue sky,
Seem'd downy cherubs peeping
Between the pine boughs high.

A little wind came blowing
And sang a wild-wood song,

O ye who pass along the way
All joyous, where with grief I pine,
In pity pause awhile and say,
Was ever sorrow like to mine?

See, hanging here before mine eyes,
This Body bloodless, bruised and torn —
Alas, it is my Son who dies
Of love deserving, not of scorn.

For know, this weak and dying Man
Is Son of him who made the earth;
And me, before the world began,
He chose to give him human birth.

He is my God; and since that night
When first I saw his infant grace,
My soul has feasted on the light

Though they say thy lips have spoken
Vows I may not image broken:
Though thy happy bosom panting
Outran all thy words were granting:
Though thy sweet lips, passion-parted,
At their own confession started —
Yet I swear by all above thee
Past eternity to love thee.

Yet — oh yet — while still the morning
Views thee wreathed in Bride's adorning:
Ere the vows, his love to cherish
On the beating echoes perish:
Ere the day's impassion'd fleetness
To another yields thy sweetness:-
Hear my oath by all above thee

" Memorare": through the ages,
Lighting saint and sinner low,
Touching heroes, poets, sages,
With a deeper spirit-glow,
Comes the prayer of Mary's Bernard,
Potent now, as long ago,
When it rose like incense heavenward
From the groves of dark Citeaux.
" Memorare, O Maria,"
That it never hath been known
Earthly pleading, " Mater pia,"
Rose unheeded to thy throne:
Hear us then, who kneel before thee
With a love that fain would grow
To the love that Bernard bore thee,
In the cloisters of Citeaux.