If Jove himself be subject unto love
And range the woods to find a mortal prey;
If Neptune from the seas himself remove,
And seek on sands with earthly wights to play:
Then may I love my peerless choice by right,
Who far excels each other mortal wight.
If Pluto could by love be drawn from hell,
To yield himself a silly virgin's thrall;
If Phoebus could vouchsafe on earth to dwell,
To win a rustic maid unto his call;
Then how much more should I adore the sight
Of her, in whom the heavens themselves delight?

When Priam's son in midst of Ida plain
Gave one the price, and other two the foile,
If she for whom I still abide in pain
Had lived then within the Troyan soil,
No doubt but hers had been the golden ball,
Helen had scaped rape, and Troy his fall.
Or if my dame had then enjoyed life
When Bacchus sought for Ariadne's love,
No doubt but she had only been his wife,
And flown from hence to sit with gods above:
For she exceeds his choice of Crete so far
As Phoebus doth excel a twinkling star.
But from the first all fates have thus assigned,

Resolved to dust, intombed here lieth Love,
Through fault of her, who here herself should lie;
He struck her breast, but all in vain did prove
To fire the ice: and doubting by and by
His brand had lost his force, he gan to try
Upon himself; which trial made him die.

In sooth no force; let those lament that lust;
I 'll sing a carol-song for obsequy;
For towards me his dealings were unjust,
And cause of all my passid misery:
The Fates, I think, seeing what I had passed,
In my behalf wrought this revenge at last.

How should I your true love know
From another one? IV, v
"By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.'

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.

1

How should I your true love know
 From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
 And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,
 He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
 At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
 Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
 With true-love showers.

2

And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
 No, no, he is dead:

I PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
— When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
— Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
— With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandered hand in hand together;
— But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
— And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
— They glided joyously along;
And I did love you very dearly —

O fool, to try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!
O beggar, to come to beg at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all,
and never look behind in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp
it touches with its breath.
It is unholy —
take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.
Accept only what is offered by sacred love.

This is my prayer to thee, my lord — strike,
strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.

By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone.
But day passes by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers,
if I keep not thee in my heart,
thy love for me still waits

PART I.

T O THE Goddess Lada prayed
 Gisli, holding high his spear
Bound with buds of spring, and laughed
 All his heart to Lada's ear.

Damp his yellow beard with mead;
 Loud the harps clanged thro' the day;
With bruised breasts triumphant rode
 Gisli's galleys in the bay.

Bards sang in the banquet hall,
 Set in loud verse Gisli's fame;
On their lips the war gods laid
 Fire to chant their warrior's name.

To the Love Queen Gisli prayed,
 Buds upon his tall spear's tip,