Fair is love whose footstep wanders
'Mid the sunny meads of spring;
Love that smiles and laughs and ponders
While the swallow's on the wing;
Fair and tender,
Full of splendour,
Full of thoughts the roses bring
— — Full of dreams the roses bring.

Sweet is love when fervent summer
Fills the fields with flowers and fruit;
When strong passion, swift-winged comer,
Wakes wild echoes with his lute;
Songs of sweeter

What adds a beauty to the rose?
The thought that, when the night-wind blows,
The petals white or petals pink
At his cold touch may fail and shrink.
This gives its beauty to the flower —
That it but blooms and lives one hour.
The sun gives charm. What gives it more?
The Shadow waiting at the door.

The sweetest hour may swiftly pass:
Brown are these blades, that once were grass.
Blue eyes, gold hair, they are but shows;
Death takes them, as it takes the rose.
Love draws such eager passionate breath

O charity! thou heav'nly grace,
All-tender, soft, and kind,
A friend to all the human race,
To all that's good inclin'd!

The man of charity extends
To all his helping hand;
His kindred, neighbors, foes, and friends,
His pity may command.

He aids the poor in their distress;
He hears when they complain;
With tender heart delights to bless,
And lessen all their pain.

The sick, the pris'ner, deaf, and blind,
And all the sons of grief,
In him a benefactor find;
He loves to give relief.

Am IDSUMMER S ONNET

In Winter gifts at Learning's feet we fling:
The sunshine finds us, but through poets' pages;
The stars gleam, but the stars of bygone ages;
Spenser wreathes Winter with the bloom of Spring
The birds are silent, but the poets sing:
In Shelley's verse the undying Summer glows;
At Keats' touch smiles again the frost-nipped rose,
And Virgil rules mid-winter like a king.

" How sweet the world can be! "

I.

The world was sweet to some, love,
'Twas sweet perhaps to thee,
Long years before we met, love,
And just as blue the sea.
But never till we met, love,
Were all things sweet to me;
I never, never, knew, love,
How sweet this world can be!

II.

No doubt the sea was blue, love,
And white the white may-tree —
But I, I never knew, love,

The Night was dark, the rain fell fast,
The wind made sullen moan;
Too oft the wine cup round had passed
And I was all alone.
Yet Love was victor; I to Moschus came
And drenched and shivering called on his dear name.

But none gave answer: such return
He renders to my love.
How long, dear God! for thou didst learn
Thyself these pains to prove.
Ah would that he in grief might wander so
And ne'er a door for place of refuge know.

THOU WAST A BLOSSOM

Thou wast a blossom by the deep
Still rivers that in heaven sleep;
Thou wast a white bud then:
Thou camest forth to fling thine arms
And all thy flower-sweet countless charms
Around the hearts of men.

Who loveth thee, he loves indeed
For many a year without love's meed,
For who can win a flower?
But when the sweet day comes, he takes
A bride more pure than bloom that shakes

The sense of leaving thee is pain severer
Each time the moment comes when we must part:
And yet by this I know that thou art dearer,
Dearer than ever to my doting heart!
Love's sacred pain hath power to bless
Even in its very piteousness;
It makes a thousand love-stars shine out plain,
For though we part, we soon shall meet again!

Yes, there will come another hour of meeting,
More love-sweet moments — moments tenderer far;
Wild moments, when the heart with passion beating
Feels oneness with all flowers, with every star

The gifts of Youth are passing fair:
Through many a soft spring day
Their tender fragrance scents the air,
But — then they pass away!
— Hope, dying ere its blossom glows:
Faith in the false world's truth:
Faith in the swiftly fading rose: —
These are the gifts of Youth.

But fairer are the gifts Love brings;
Is there one humble cot,
One palace of a thousand kings
Where star-crowned Love is not?
— A rapture passing earthly speech:
Light stolen from heaven above:
The power, it seems, that heaven to reach: —

I.

Once more, with skies above her
Of endless perfect air,
With sunlit leaves to love her
And whisper, " Thou art fair; "
Once more — and statelier, surer,
When summer's hymn was done —
From woman's mouth came purer
The anthems of the sun:
Once more, in honeyed metre
That charmed grief to repose,
From woman's lips came sweeter
The lyrics of the rose.

II.