I.

Is there a stream on this sweet earth
In vale or woodland, where
Traditions of unhappy love
Breathe not like summer air?

II.

There is no thought to hallow earth
With more consoling gladness
Than the true comfort she hath given
To lovers in their sadness.

III.

Green trees and streams and castled steeps
Are sweetest when they move,
The gentle forms in stirring songs
Of old disastrous love.

IV.

Born of no time or nation, still,
In its imperial force,

From the earliest days,
Ev'ry writer of lays
Has delighted to sing about Passion;
But of rhymes there's a dearth
For the Briton by birth
Who would follow this popular fashion.
For though Love is a theme
That we poets esteem
As unrivalled, immortal, sublime too,
'Tis a word that the bard
Finds it daily more hard
To discover a suitable rhyme to!
For one can't always mention the " stars up above, "

I.

When Jacob 's muse re-strings the slacken'd lyre ,
And, sweetly pensive, sounds the meaning strain,
Why does his fruitless modesty , in vain,
Conceal his name , yet, not conceal his fire :
Since sentiments alone the soul explain,
Keep your thoughts hid, or think not you retire .

II.

Rare, and soon-mark'd, in this receiving age,
Strait, to its spring , unvenal verse is trac'd;
Its course far shining, tho' its banks defac'd!
'Twas needless to subscribe the speaking page,
Unpension'd eminence, and worth mis-plac'd ,

Tell me, sweet glove! what name the charmer bears,
Whose downy hand thy snowy cov'ring wears?

'Tis a dear name , I am forbid to tell,
But these distinguish'd marks may paint her well:
She's gently aweful , winningly severe ,
Charms , when she speaks , yet rather loves, to hear ;
Wise, as a god ; as fancy'd angels , fair;
Lovely, as light , and soft, as upper air .

Enough, sweet glove! by this plain picture , taught,
H — — e, I find, is the dear name , I sought.

Somewhat of wildness and of weak untruth
And fond abstraction, surely may be borne,
Not without ready pardon, in a youth
Who hath but for awhile his fetters worn.
For the hot heart of youth hath laws: mayhap
The seeds of married faith are often cast
Upon this surge of hopes, and in the lap
Of vernal love may take true root at last.
Yet courtship is the unshapely element,
Whence the deep power of chaste affection still
Must calmly be evoked, till it fulfil
The end and nature of a sacrament,
And sanctify both spirits from above

O that I was all soul, that I might prove
For you as fit a love
As you for angel's, for I vow
None but pure spirits ere are fit for you.

You're all ethereal—there's in you no dross,
Nor any part that's gross;
Your coarsest part is like the curious lawn,
With cords for vestal relics drawn.

Your finer part, part of the purest fire
That ere Heaven did inspire;
Makes every thought that is refined by it,
A quintessence of goodness and of wit.

Thus hath your rapture reach'd to that degree
In love's highest philosophy,

WRITTEN AT THE KING'S COMMAND .

Thou that lov'd once, now lov'st no more,
For fear to show more love than brain,
With heresy unhatched before,
Apostacy thou dost maintain.
Can he have either brain or love,
That doth inconstancy approve?
A choice well made, no change admits,

I.

Come, I will give thee half a heart
If that will do to love;
And if I give thee all, dear friend,
It would but worthless prove.

II.

Thou art too good to see or know
The ills that in me dwell:
It is most right to keep our faults
From those we love so well.

III.

So then I warn thee, do not think
My fitful love untrue:
I have another, darker self,
Which thou must sometimes view.

IV.

Men take me, change me if they may,
And love me if they can;
Few can do that; few choose, like thee,
A double-hearted man.

Wilt thou, remorseless fair,
Still laugh while I lament,
Or shall thy chief contentment be,
To see me malcontent?

Shall I, Narcissus-like,
A flying shadow chase,
Or like Pygmalion hug a stone,
That hath no sense of grace?

No, no, my blind love now
Must borrow Reason's eyes,
And as thy fairness made me fond,
My wrongs must make me wise.

My loyalty disdains
To love a loveless dame:
The life of Cupid's fire consists
Into a mutual flame.

Had'st thou but given one look,

All sweet and startled gravity,
My Love comes walking from the Park;
Her eyes are full of what they've seen —
The little bushes puffing green,
The candles pale that light the chestnut-tree.

The tulip and the jonquil spies;
The sunshine and the sudden dark;
The dance of buds; and Madam Dove,
Sir Blackbird fluting to his Love —
These little loves my Love has in her eyes.

In dainty shoes and subtle hose
My Love comes walking from the Park;
She is, I swear, the sweetest thing
That ever left the heart of Spring,