So you think you love me, do you?
Well, it may be so;
But there are many ways of loving
I have learnt to know.
Many ways, and but one true way,
Which is very rare;
And the counterfeits look brightest,
Though they will not wear.

Yet they ring, almost, quite truly,
Last (with care) for long;
But in time must break, may shiver
At a touch of wrong:
Having seen what looked most real
Crumble into dust;
Now I choose that test and trial
Should precede my trust.

I have seen a love demanding

I

He was not learned in any art;
But Nature led him by the hand;
And spoke her language to his heart
So he could hear and understand:
He loved her simply as a child;
And in his love forgot the heat
Of conflict, and sat reconciled
In patience of defeat.

II

Before me now I see him rise —
A face, that seventy years had snowed
With winter, where the kind blue eyes
Like hospitable fires glowed:
A small gray man whose heart was large,
And big with knowledge learned of need;
A heart, the hard world made its targe,

To mine us antient as louing friend, Mr Peter Ferriman

O F my heart's Heau'n through loue (though Hel through sin)
Peter thou keepst the keyes; yet art lockt in

In my absence, though so short,
You, Rosette, had changed your mind:
Learning your inconstancy,
I, another mistress find.
Never more shall charms so free
Gain ascendancy o'er me.
We shall see, oh light Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

While with tears I pine away,
Cursing separation drear;
You, who love by force of wont,
Took another for your dear.
Never vane all lightly hung,
To the wind more swiftly swung.
We shall see, oh vain Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

Where are all those sacred vows, —

I

When you and I in the hills went Maying,
You and I in the bright May weather,
The birds, that sang on the boughs together,
There in the green of the woods, kept saying
All that my heart was saying low,
" I love you! love you! " soft and low, —
And did you know?
When you and I in the hills went Maying.

II

There where the brook on its rocks went winking,

The restless wind is tired, Willie,
Of singing among the leaves.
And longs to shriek in the shrouds, Willie,
Out where the mammoth cleaves.

The roving wind is rude, Willie,
And wanton with love of me,
It makes a sail of my gown, Willie,
To billow me out to sea.

But the crags are cruel steep, Willie,
And cold are the rocks below,
And lost I should be for aye, Willie,
Did my lover once let me go.

And the wind doth veer and change, Willie,
And wide is the world of sea,
And should I be left to drift, Willie,

Grieve not, my sister, that this heart returning
To its lov'd home, is welcomed there with sighs,
For it is sweet, when those we love are mourning,
To mix with theirs the waters of our eyes.

And it is sweet to mingle with their sorrow
The little comforts which we can bestow;
Rejoicing, if their wretchedness can borrow
From look of ours a sweetness out of woe.

When hearts we love are revelling in gladness,
Tho' far away we are content and blest;
But when they tremble to the breath of sadness,

To the right noble Lord, worthy of all loue and honor, the Lord Vicount Lisle

Deere Lord, while I doe muse to finde out words
To suite thy worth, I finde the labour great;
For still so much true Worthines affoords
That fullest words are nothing so compleate
Faine would I do thee honor if I could,
For many deere respects; but ah, alas!
Small is the honor rimes both few and cold
Can giue thy vertues which all praise doth passe
Learning and armes, together with the Muse
(Which trinity of powers Artes heaun selt forth)

Sing, little darling, sing,
And may thy song be everlasting!
Not all the learning wits and sages boast
Can equal the sweet burden of thy song; —
Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife; —
Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars; —
Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave
May threat to overwhelm.
The love of Jesus, —
Sweet, having this thou risest far above
All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.


Did He who blest
That infant band that crowded round His knee,

The flowers that bloom on the bosom of Earth,
Though sweet in their odour, and rich in their hue,
Are emblems too fleeting of beauty and worth,
For a gift of affection, dear Mary, to you.

For you I have chosen a bouquet of flowers,
That ne'er drank a dew-drop nor glow'd in the sun;
They were form'd as the solace of wearisome hours,
In a Convent's deep shade, by an innocent Nun.

Still in beauty will bloom this fair effort of Art,
When the offspring of Flora are blighted and dead;
As a proof of my love, 'twill be dear to thy heart,