Keep me, sweet Love: thy keeping is my rest.
Not safer feels the eaglet from beneath
The wings that roof the inaccessible nest,
Than I when thou art with me, Dearest, Best,
Whose love my life is, yea, my very breath.
Thy Son to Egypt fled, to prove our faith.
Not Herod's men had snatched him from thy breast,
Or changed his throned slumber into death.
How wonderful thy keeping, mighty Queen,
So close, so tender; and as if thine eyes
Had only me to watch, thine arm to screen,
And this inconstant heart were such a prize —

Accurst be loue and they that trust his train es
He tastes the fruite, whilst others toyle:
He brings the lampe, we lend the oyle:
He sowes distres, we yeeld him soyle:
He wageth warre, we bide the foyle:

Accurst be Loue, and those that trust his traines:
He laies the trap, we seeke the snare:
He threatneth death, we speake him faire:
He coynes deceits, we foster care:
He fauoreth pride, we count it rare.

Accurst be Loue, and those that trust his traines,
He seemeth blinde, yet wounds with Art:

I am lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,
Tho' I move within the gloom, love,
Breathe within the gloom!
Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,
Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the grey world, darling,
What is the grey world,
Where the worm lies curled, darling,
The deathworm lies curled?
They tell me of the spring, dear!
Do I want the spring?
Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
O my little child!

The gentle heart, the truthful love,
Have flemed this earth and fled to Heaven—
The noblest spirits earliest prove
Not Here below, but There above,
Is Hope no shadow—Bliss no sweven!

There was a time, old Poets say,
When the crazed world was in its nonage,
That they who loved were loved alwaye,
With faith transparent as the day,
But this, meseems, was fiction's coinage.

We cannot mate here as we ought,
With laws opposed to simple feeling;
Professions are, like lute string, bought,
And worldly ties soon breed distraught,

Vv H ile Eagle-like vpon the lofty wings
Of thy aspiring Muse thou flies on hie,
Making th' immortall Sprites in loue with thee,
And of those Ditties thou so sweetly sings,
Where quaffing boules of their Ambrosian springs,
And sweetest Nectar, thou diuinely stayes:
Low by the earth (poore I) sings homely layes,
Till like desire of fame me vpward brings,
Then borrowing, from thy rich Muse, some plumes,
Icarian -like beyond my skill I soare,
While comming where thy songs are heard before,
My lines are mockt, that thine to match presumes:

Our early love was only dream!
Still a dream too fair for earth,
Hallowed in a faint far gleam,
Where the fairest flowers have birth,
Let it rest! no stain e'er trouble
Magic murmur, limpid bubble!

There two spirits in the calm
Of moonlight memory may go,
Finding pure refreshing balm,
When life traileth wounded, slow
Along dim ways of common dust,
As dull lives of mortals must.

Early love, fair fount of waters,
Ever by enchantment flowing,
Where two snakes, her innocent daughters,

With faltering step would I depart,
From home and friend that claimed my heart —
And the big tear would dim mine eye,
Fixed on the scenes of early years,
(Each spot some pleasure past endears)
And I would mingle with a sigh
The accents of the farewell lay —
But for my love that's far way!

Friends and dear native land, adieu!
In hope we part — no tears bedew
My cheek — no dark regrets alloy
The buoyant feelings of the hour
That leads me to my ladye's bower —
My breast throbs with a wondrous joy,

Oft have I sighed for pleasure past,
Oft wept for secret smarting —
But far the heaviest drop of all
That ever on my cheek did fall
The tear was at our parting.

Why did our bosoms ever beat
Harmonious with each other,
If truest sympathies of soul
Might broken be, perhaps the whole
Concentred in another?

My fear it was when other scenes,
With other tongues and faces,
Should greet thee, thou would'st haply be

'Tis true , that me , with roses crown'd,
The tear of Sympathy has found,
 And been at once obey'd:
That Pleasure's light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk—when pale Misfortune's hour
 Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true , that in the moral grief
I never ask'd or wish'd relief,
 Nor envy'd playful ease:
But Love the miracle has wrought,
And Love the feeling bosom taught
 How dearly Pain can please!

I LOOK on thee once more,—
I gaze on thee and sigh,
To think how soon some hearts run o'er
With love, and then run dry.

I need not marvel long
That love in thee expires,
For shallowest streams have loudest song,
Most smoke the weakest fires.

I deemed thee once sincere,—
Once thought thy breast must be
A fountain gushing through the year
With living love for me!

For so it was with mine,
The well-springs of my soul
Were opened up, and streamed to thine,
As their appointed goal.