You did my Motion to be heard, forbid,
Yet me, for want of Moving, non-suited;
You say, by bold Claims you, like Heav'n, are lost,
That he who fears and trembles, merits most;
That you, as Heav'n, Men by Presumption lose,
You, your Blest, by their Self-denials chuse;
That they their Merit lose, of Faith and Love,
When they Love's Joys to be their Due wou'd prove;
As Beggars bold, who rather claim than sue,
Forfeit that Pity, which were else their Due;
Then I, since thee, not as my Right, I crave,
Shou'd thee sure, as my Right, in Justice have;

I.

Kind Opportunity's a Friend
To Lovers, tho' Time is a Foe;
The first, is like a Mistress, kind,
If that you do not let her go;
But Time, that Thief, away will take again,
What t'other for thee, did in haste, obtain:

II.

Then trust not Faithless Time, (my Dear,)
With Beauty, Love, or Happiness;
Since Time is a Discoverer,
He never to be trusted is;
Time, (whilst you have it then,) be sure improve,
And never trust a Run-away with Love:

By her talent a secret will Celia discover,
As the picture will speak — it will say that I love her .

I.

Love 's so pleasant a Pain,
Such a tickling dear Smart,
That it makes me complain,
When it eases my Heart:
To be more my Joy, wou'd it were more my Grief,
To make it, as more my Pain, more my Relief:

II.

For, its Troubles, or Cares,
But its Pleasures increase;
So that but for our Fears,
Our Joys in it were less;
Then more may my Troubles, Pains, Fears be, that so,
As they grow more, more may my Pleasures be too;

I.

The wan moon silvers with pale, sullen sheen
A rose-wreathed arbor near the sleepy Rhine,
Which, like a wounded snake of Damascene,
Trails its dull length through leagues of hops and vine.

A woman with cold, loveless eyes stands there,
Spurning, as would the shadows of the shores,
A gentle boy, with blonde and wind-loved hair,
Who at her haughty feet his soul outpours.

She turns her head a cold smile to conceal,

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE, DECEMBER 25, 1871 .

When I met thee, gentle lady, in the days of long ago,
This world of ours was fairer than it seemeth now, I trow.
The meadow grass was greener, the sky a deeper blue,
The stars in the heaven were brighter — brighter every drop of dew;
The shining rills and rivers sung a softer melodie,
As they went, arrayed in diamonds, to their bridal with the sea.
The birds made sweeter singing midst the summer-scented leaves,
Richer gold and crimson curtains hung around the dying eves,

I.

How hard is the poor Woman's Fate,
Whether she soon, or late is won,
No Thanks deserves, if 'tis too late,
Nor Love, if that she yields too soon.

II.

By Man, forc'd to Hypocrisie,
Yet for it, by him, most condemn'd,
Hated, if Love she does deny,
And yet, for granting it, contemn'd,

III.

By him, with whom she soon complies,
Is thought, a coming Easie Whore,

IMPROMPTU .

Hail unto thee grand literary giant!
Great voice that rings among us like a thunder:
Impeccable, unique, without a blunder,
To all in Nature comprehensive, pliant!

In thy rare art, immense and self-reliant,
Thy pure verse rends old crumbling creeds asunder,
Genius supreme, strange and immortal wonder,
We love thy omniscient heart, thy soul defiant!

We love the changes of thy spirit tender,

I.

Variety I love, 'tis true,
But for Your Dear-dear-Sake alone;
Variety I find in You,
Who have all Woman's Charms in one.

II.

Your Humour varies like Your Look;
Which You so dayly change to me,
That, if with Change I were not took,
I cou'd not constant to You be.

III.

Blame me not, for Inconstancy,
Which more my Faith does to thee prove,
Did I not love Variety;

I.

Since Love's a Passion, Sense in Love,
Were senseless, dull Impertinence,
For Love, no more than Faith, we prove
By pedant Reason, babling Sense;
Faith in Love, as Religion too,
By Good-Works, not Good-Sense, we show.

II.

In busie Life's most base Concerns,
Of Honour, Pow'r, or Interest,
That Reason something more discerns,
Than Blind Faith can, it is confest;
But in the great Affair of Love,