O MIGHTY Queen, our Lady of the fire,
The light, the music, and the honey, all
Blent in one Power, one passionate Desire
Man calleth Love — " Sweet love," the blessed call — :
I come a sad-eyed suppliant to thy knee,
If thou hast pity, pity grant to me;
If thou hast bounty, here a heart I bring
For all that bounty 'thirst and hungering
O Lady, save thy grace, there is no way
For me, I know, but lonely sorrowing —

If in my soul, dear,
An omen should dwell,
Bidding me pause, ere
I love thee too well;
If the whole circle
Of noble and wise,
With stern forebodings,
Between us should rise; —

I will tell them , dear,
That Love reigns — a King,
Where storms cannot reach him,
And words cannot sting;
He counts it dishonor
His faith to recall;
He trusts; — and forever

I

A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood:
A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:
One large, white star above the solitude,
Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain,
Wild-roses wistful in a web of rain.

II

No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead;
No woodsman compass of the skies and rocks, —
Tattooed of stars and lichens, — doth love need
To guide him where, among the hollyhocks,

To my louing and iuditious friend Mr Francis Wye.

Wye was the nimphe neere which I first did breath.
And Wye's the man with whome I loue to liue;
The first, is apt to nourish life and death,
The last, but comforts sweete, to life doth giue:
Then Wye I pree thee runne with righter course
To mee then Wye doth wandring from her sourse.

To my truly louing and beloued friend Mr William Wall.

Well , be so still; be (as thou art) a Wall
For thy friends saueguard and thine owne withall;
Be thou thyselfe and thou thyselfe wilt bee
Desirde of all that rightly value thee:
For if my loue my iudgement blinde not, then
Thou art more worth then many wealthy men.

T HERE was a time, yea, yea, a time there was,

(But that that was, the Fryer neuer lou'd)
When he was held a beast that was an asse,
But now an asse is often best approu'd:

THE tender, delicate Flowers,
I saw them fanned by a warm western wind
Fed by soft summer showers,
Shielded by care, and yet, (O Fate unkind!)
Fade in a few short hours.

The gentle and the gay,
Rich in a glorious Future of bright deeds,
Rejoicing in the day,
Are met by Death, who sternly, sadly leads
Them far away.

And Hopes, perfumed and bright,
So lately shining, wet with dew and tears,
Trembling in morning light;
I saw them change to dark and anxious fears
Before the night!

I wept that all must die:

To my most louing and intirely beloued Pupill, Mr Arthur De la-vale, attending the right honourable and most happy Earle of Dunbarre.

Thy name is of the Vale: thy nature, not:
For it is kinde and truly generous:
As are thy worthy brothers (well I wou)
Then is thy nature highly vertuous:
Yet being lowly too as is the Dale,
Thy name thy nature fits, deere De la-Vale.

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
Alone in the silence bright;
While heav'n enswathes in a glittering veil
An unreal world of white.

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
In the deathless afterglow
Of ideal love that was pure and white,
Ah! Willie, you know, you know!

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
While out in the quiet street,
A passionate wail of melody
Flows out from a cornet sweet.

The plaint in the air is sad, Willie,
Ah! Sadder could never be,
" Love not, love not " — Ah God! Willie,

FROM THE FRENCH

From the same parent, issuing at a birth,
Two different beings tread this changeful earth;
The one call'd Happiness, to whom was given,
With liberal hand, each fairer boon of heaven;
But, from his youth, defrauded of his due,
No kind, no lenient care Misfortune knew,
Till soften'd by his wrongs, the sacred powers
Bade Hermes soothe to milder grief his hours.
He placed Humanity for ever near,
And the sweet pleasures of the social tear;
Taught Love, with tender Amity to join,

To the most truly noble knight, worthy of all praise, loue, and honor, Sr Iohn Harington, onely sonne to the noble Lord, the Lord Harington.

Should I depaint thee with those shades and lights
(For rightest coulors will but wrong the life)
That might but touch thy vertues' depths and heights:
Arte with her selfe would striue to bee at strife:
For should I touch thy minde (intangible,
Fraught with whateuer makes or good or great,
As learning, language, artes immensible,
Witt, courage, courtesie; and all compleat)