Keen to the danger,
constantly I shun
the eyes of others,
treading like one on a plank trail
rigged across the face of the cliff

When my dear Love is absent,
And in lonely grief I stand,
My bosom is an Egypt
With a famine in the land.

But when she cometh to me
With a tender, trusting smile,
My bosom is an Egypt
With an overflowing Nile.

If yet I have not all thy love,
Deare, I shall never have it all,
I cannot breath one other sigh, to move,
Nor can intreat one other teare to fall,
And all my treasure, which should purchase thee,
Sighs, teares, and oathes, and letters I have spent.
Yet no more can be due to mee,
Then at the bargaine made was ment,
If then thy gift of love were partiall,
That some to mee, some should to others fall,
Deare, I shall never have Thee All.

Or if then thou gavest mee all,
All was but All, which thou hadst then;

O Mind, drink deep of the wine of Hari's love.
Why follow after the wine of worldly pleasures? O fool, beware of these.

To the six draughts is due the bondage of desires: and these thou holdest good,

Beside the immortal wine of Hari's love, these are altogether tasteless.

The minds of sants are bees of Hari's nectar, ever inebriate with it.

Taste thou also of this nectar, filling thy vessel to the brim.
The one immortal draught is Hari's immortal love: all other immortalities are false.
O Mehar, drink and be immortal and from the noose of death be free.

What makes thee thus my hand to press,
With such an ardent fold;
What makes thee stop and sigh and blush,
Ere half thy tale be told?
Why do thy eyes, when fix'd on mine,
Such sweet sensations prove;
Then roll in softness, as they'd weep?—
It surely must be love.

Why does that wanton hand of thine,
Thus wander o'er my breast?
The little trembler that's within,
Thou marrest of its rest.
The silent language of thy sighs,
Me, too, to sigh doth move;
Yet still you press me to your breast,
And say “it's all but love.”—

Rouse to defend the land ye love,
Ye stalwart men and brave;
O'er all its breadth, from sea to sea,
Bid Freedom's banner wave.

They heard, they stood, in serried ranks
They marched at Freedom's call;
One hope beat high in every heart,
One thought inspired them all.

Deep in the furrow where it sank,
The plough, ungeared, stood still,
While broader plans and loftier aims,
Waited the freemen's will.

So Cincinnatus bravely led
His Roman soldiers, true;
So, fearless, trod through fields of blood
Our Cincinnati too.

Oh the old moon will rise not yet;
'T is a weary, weary old moon
And late, late up; but we will not fret,
The new moon will shine for us soon.

And, “where is the new moon,” pet?
“And where does the old moon go?”
They never are parted, they never met,
But each from the other they grow.

In her bosom the old moon yet
The new moon shelters and warms,
And the fair young moon—she will not forget
But rise with the old in her arms!

A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony.
A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders.
You look away: the new love!
You look back,—the new love!
“Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with time,” the children sing to you. “Build wherever you can the substance of our fortunes and our wishes,” they beg you.
Arriving from always, you’ll go away everywhere.

Mine eye, mine ear, my will, my wit, my heart,
Did see, did hear, did like, discern, did love,
Her face, her speech, her fashion, judgment, art,
Which did charme, please, delight, confound and move.
Then fancy, humour, love, conceit and thought,
Did so draw, force, intice, persuade, devise,
That she was won, moved, carried, compassed, wrought,
To think me kind, true, comely, valiant, wise,
That heaven, earth, hell, my folly and her pride,
Did work, contrive, labour, conspire and swear,
To make me scorn'd, vile, cast off, base, defied,

The lover under burthen of his love--
Which like to Etna did his heart oppress--
Did give such piteous groans, that he did move
The heavens at length to pity his distress:
But for the fates in their high court above
Forbade to make the grievous burthen less,
The gracious powers did all conspire to prove
If miracle this mischief might redress.
Therefore, regarding that the load was such
As no man might with one man's might sustain,
And that mild patïence imported much
To him that should endure an endless pain,
By their decree he soon transformëd was