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.

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: