I love thee for thy friendship, which to me
Hath still been true while all were false beside:
I love thee for thy love of Poesy,
And for thy art therein — which is thy pride,
And should be so; I love the melody
Which dwells deep in thy soul, and in a tide
Of silver-toned absorbing witchery,
Rushes upon the listening heart. — Allied
With these fine qualities, I also see
Virtues which raise the heart where they reside
Above the cold world's level: and must be
Prized as gems rich and rare, to most denied:

I like not grapes that still are green,
I like not grapes that pressed have been,
And so I would not choose to woo
Widow Glum or Maiden Prue.
Compassion suits the widowed dame,
Respect is due to virgin shame:
My wife a beauty ripe shall be
To tread the courts of Love with me.

Each rain-shower is an evidence to the air
Of the relief of heaven, and each storm
Of sobs the pressure of God's bosom warm,—
A token sent our spirits to prepare
For a closer tenderness, a joy more rare,
A weeping purer and more clear and sweet,
Deliverance after yet more fervent heat,
A trouble greater than our souls could bear.

Just as a husband weeps upon the breast
Of his wife, and in that holy shower of rain
The thunder-clouds and copper skies of pain
Expand, and sob their terror into rest,

Venus, ruler of the waves,
Who the storm-tossed seaman saves,
As a helper by me stand,
For I shipwreck make on land.

I hate Dan Cupid; he is cruel found
And ever aims his shafts my heart to wound.
'Twere better for him raging beasts to fight —
Why should a god set mortal hearts alight?
What glory will he win by slaying me?
My life, methinks, a paltry prize will be.

The loves of men as yet are icy floes,
Imperfect, shapeless, in tumultuous motion,
Rolled aimlessly about the mad mid-ocean:
With shocks that shatter and with blinding blows,
Heart-pangs of agony, convulsive throes,
Abandonment of being, death-devotion,
A death that strangles every previous notion,
Harmoniously the glittering ice-berg rose.

I stand beyond the future, and I see
Rise passion-pinnacled the crystal palace,
Awful with unimagined purity;
A frozen rainbow, an inverted chalice,
A dream-encircled dream of what shall be

Let lovers sigh for night,
In their young fancy sweetest,
When pale Luna's gentle light
The eye greetest.

Let them lovingly stray
The calm cool groves among,
When every sound has died away,
And night is young.

I love the tranquil hour
Just as the broad sun sets,
When Zephyr with dew from his bow'r
The king-cup wets.

'T is then the purer heart
Feels joy it cannot smother,
When day and night seem loth to part,
And kiss each other.

And I have drank of bliss
At twilight hour, with one

( " Toutes les passions s'eloignent avec l'âge. " )

As life wanes on, the passions slow depart,
One with his grinning mask, one with his steel;
Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art,
Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill,
But nought can Love's all charming power efface,
That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er,
In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace,
The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

Whilst Ovid here reveals the various arts
Both how to polish and direct their darts,
Let meaner beauties by his rules improve,
And read these lines to gain success in love:
But Heav'n alone, that multiplies our race,
Has pow'r t' increase the conquests of your face.
The Spring, before he paints the rising flow'rs,
Receives mild beams and soft descending shew'rs;
But love blooms ever fresh beneath your charms,
Tho' neither pity weeps nor kindness warms.
The chiefs who doubt success assert their claim
By stratagems, and poorly steal a name:

Come idle urchin, treach'rous boy,
Thou dang'rous play-thing, transient joy:
Thy restless pinion hither bend,
Or on thy mother's dove descend;
Or on a fragrant gale repose,
Fresh from the bosom of a rose;
Or on a sun-beam hither hie,
Or bear thee on a balmy sigh!
Oh come, while yet th' impulse is warm,
To realize thy Proteus form,
Come, arm'd with all thy magic arts,
Thy quiver, arrows, bow and darts;
Come with thy legion of delusions,
Call up thy phalanx of illusions;

Embody all thy arch conceptions,