If, Lord, Thy love for me is strong
As this which binds me unto Thee,
What holds me from Thee, Lord, so long,
What holds Thee, Lord, so long from me?

O soul, what then desirest thou?
--Lord, I would see Thee, who thus choose Thee.
What fears can yet assail thee now?
--All that I fear is but to lose Thee.

Love's whole possession I entreat,
Lord, make my soul Thine own abode,
And I will build a nest so sweet
It may not be too poor for God.

O soul in God hidden from sin,
What more desires for thee remain,

I love the stone of your threshold,
I love the path without it,
I love the briar in its borders,
With the brave young plants about it
There is pleasure in sight of your windows,
And passing, in decorous night,
I smile my love to your window
And bow my love to your light.

Together by bright water
We sat, my love and I.
Light as a skimming swallow
The perfect hour went by
With words like ripples breaking
On full thoughts softly waking;
With thoughts so dear and shy
That no word dared to follow.

Down by that sunny water
The spring's sweet voice we heard.
The wind, the leaves' young lover,
My love's hair gently stirred.
An hour ago we parted;
I wander heavy-hearted.
Heavily, like a wounded bird,
The day lags, night draws over.

What is war and all its joys?
Useless mischief, empty noise.
What are arms and trophies won?
Spangles glittering in the sun.
Rosy Bacchus, give me wine,
Happiness is only thine!

What is love without the bowl?
'Tis a languor of the soul:
Crowned with ivy, Venus charms;
Ivy courts me to her arms.
Bacchus, give me love and wine,
Happiness is only thine!

Oh , this love—this love!
I ainse the passion slighted;
But hearts that truly love,
Must break or be united.
Oh, this love!

When first he cam' to woo,
I little cared aboot him;
But seene I felt as though
I could na' live without him.
Oh, this love!

He brought to me the ring,
My hand asked o' my mither—
I could na' bear the thought
That he should wed anither.
Oh, this love!

And now I'm a' his ain—
In a' his joys I mingle;
Nac for the wealth of warlds
Wad I again be single!
Oh, this love!

Let us sing in chorus praises
Of jolly buxom Bacchus.
Long live the purple vintage,
Long live the wine-vat's treasure,
And long live we to quaff it.

We love the sparkling colours
Of wine, we love carousals.
Pale cheeks the wine-bowl flushes,
It kindles eyes with love-light,
And dullards' tongues makes witty.

Who worships not the wine-god,
And when the goblet circles
Refuses to be merry,
May he be changed by Circe
To a frog, and croak in marshes.

Till I have peace with thee, war other men,
And when I have peace, can I leave thee then?
All other wars are scrupulous; only thou
O fair free city, mayst thyself allow
To any one. In Flanders, who can tell
Whether the master press, or men rebel?
Only we know, that which all idiots say,
They bear most blows which come to part the fray.
France in her lunatic giddiness did hate
Ever our men, yea and our God of late;
Yet she relies upon our angels well,
Which ne'er return; no more than they which fell.
Sick Ireland is with a strange war possessed

I love to mark the bustling deer
Leap oer the walk as rousd from lare
& run till distance damps their fear
Then stopping turn them round to stare
Where wind shook boughs if suns are bright
To stretch their dancing shadows round
Oft wakes afresh their idle fright
& starts them swifter oer the ground.

Man in this Lapst Estate at very best,
A Cripple is and footsore, sore opprest,
Can't track Gods Trace but Pains, and pritches prick
Like poyson'd splinters sticking in the Quick.
Yet jims in th'Downy path with pleasures spread
As twas below him on the Earth to tread.
Can prance, and trip within the way of Sin,
Yet in Gods path moves not a little wing.

Almighty this foreseing, and withall
That all this stately worke of his would fall
Tumble, and Dash to pieces Did in lay
Before it was too late for it a Stay.

Where are last year's snows,
Where the summer's rose,—
Who is there that knows?

Or the glorious note
Of some singer's throat,
Heard in years remote?

Or the love they bore
Who, in days of yore,
Loved, but are no more?

Or the faiths men knew
When, before mind grew,
All strange things seemed true?


The snows are sweet spring rain,
The dead rose blooms again,
Young voices keep the strain.

The old affection mild
Still springs up undefiled
For love, and friend, and child.

The old faiths grown more wide,