Enough I love you, after years and years,
To write Love in your grave-dust with my tears.
And after you whom shall I love? At most
Only, ah me, a dead man—or a ghost!

A BALLAD .

Come , play me that simple air again,
I used so to love, in life's young day,
And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then
Were wakened by that sweet lay,
The tender gloom its strain
Shed o'er the heart and brow,
Grief's shadow without its pain —

At night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
" 'T is late, my love! " and chide delay,
Tho' still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,
With those we love exchanged at night!

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee —
So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm
Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife,
Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm,
Wherewith to " heal the waters " of this life!

Love had a fever — ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin; —
One to whom all the world's a debtor —
So Doctor Hymen was called in,
And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Tho' still some ugly fever latent; —
" Dose, as before " — a gentle opiate,
For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,

Iesus, my life! how shall I truly love thee?
O that thy Spirit would so strongly move me,
That thou wert pleas'd to shed thy grace so farr
As to make man all pure love, flesh a star!
A star that would ne'r set, but ever rise,
So rise and run, as to out-run these skies,
These narrow skies (narrow to me) that barre,
So barre me in, that I am still at warre,
At constant warre with them. O come and rend,
Or bow the heavens! Lord bow them and descend,
And at thy presence make these mountains flow,
These mountains of cold Ice in me! Thou art

Love is the noblest Principle
That e'er possest the Mind;
But, Oh, what loads of Counterfeits!
Tho' some we gen'ine find.

Thus Lust oft times does go for Love,
How hath it stole the Name!
We know it is a fiend of Hell,
But Love from Heaven came.

Thus sorded Av'rice often tries
To pass with us for Love,
'Tis like the cunning Fox, I think,
That would assume the Dove.

How is it that a Christian e'er
Can to this Idol bow
In Marriage, and forget the Heart?
Do such perform their Vow?

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love,
From those dark ties unbind thee;
Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove,
Too long its links have twined thee.
Away from earth! — thy wings were made
In yon mid-sky to hover,
With earth beneath their dove-like shade,
And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,
Too long thy soul is sleeping;
And thou mayst from this minute's joy
Wake to eternal weeping.
Oh, think, this world is not for thee;
Tho' hard its links to sever;
Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be,

Sing to Love—for, oh, 't was he
Who won the glorious day;
Strew the wreaths of victory
Along the conqueror's way.
Yoke the Muses to his car,
Let them sing each trophy won;
While his mother's joyous star
Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love,
Let spirits sing around;
While the hill, the dale, and grove,
With “mighty Love” resound;
Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal
Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er,
'T will but teach the god to feel
His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst

A Pastoral

Two nymphs to whom the pow'rs of verse belong,
Alike ambitious to excel in song,
With equal sweetness sang alternate strains,
And courteous echo told the list'ning plains;
That of her lover sung, this of her friend;
Ye rural nymphs and village swains attend.

C ELIA .

O Love, soft sov'reign, ruler of the heart!
Deep are thy wounds, and pleasing is the smart;
When Strephon smiles the wint'ry fields look gay,