Love mocks us all. Then cast aside
These tuneful plaints, my Albius tried
For heartless Glycera, from thee
Fled to a younger lover. See,
Low-browed Lycoris burns denied

For Cyrus; he—though goats shall bide
With wolves ere she in him confide—
Turns, with base suit, to Pholœ:—
Love mocks us all!

So Venus wills, and joys to guide
'Neath brazen yoke pairs ill-allied
In form and Mind. So linked she me
(Whom worthier wooed) to Myrtale,
Fair, but less kind than Hadria's tide:—
Love mocks us all!

You are coming home with the breath of spring
Flying home to a love-lined nest,
Most loving care hath made it fair
Your hands will do the rest

And the bridal robe you have laid aside
And the vail all of lacy foam,
The maiden's wed, the tour is sped
So welcome, welcome home

The past is laid by with the bridal wreath
The bride has come home a wife,
And now we pray that blessings may
Crown all your wedded life

What shall be the blessing, my dearest dear,
When it's all that we have to give?
That peace and love, from God above,

The fairy bark is ready, and by the shore is moored;
Ye Fair! the pilot Cupid inviteth ye on board.
See!—see!—the anchor stirs, amid the waters dark,
And the little wingéd mariners are eager to embark!

Of purple are her sails, which tremble in the breeze,
And Laughter is the captain bold, who guides her through the seas.
The enamoured air floats round, with sportive wing and lip,
And swells the silken canvass, and moves the gallant ship!

Her sail-yards are of silver, divinely laboured o'er,
And art has lent a thousand charms, even to the precious ore;

Good madam, when ladies are willing,
A man must needs look like a fool;
For me, I would not give a shilling
For one who would love out of rule.

You should leave us to guess by your blushing,
And not speak the matter so plain;
'Tis our's to write and be pushing,
'Tis your's to affect a disdain.

That you're in a terrible taking,
By all these sweet oglings I see;
But the fruit that can fall without shaking,
Indeed is too mellow for me.

Laughter shapes a new love
In the mind now grown
Complacent with the sorrow
Of love that sleeps like stone.
Laughter is an arrow,
Blown as light is blown.

Laughter is the true love.
One by one by one,
First loves turn to trouble,
Grow wistful and are done.
But laughter is a bubble
Unmindful of the sun.

I think of thee
As night's soft, filmy veil is drawn aside
And sunbeams ope day's crimson portals wide;
In fancy thy fair form is by my side,
Thy smile is beaming bright, clear as the light,
Thy face is ever near at early morn.

I think of thee
When Sol has bathed the earth with golden rays,
Winning from feather'd choirs their songs of praise;
Oh, light is labour,—swiftly pass the days;
With me thou dost abide, tho' seas divide;
Thinking of thee the hours glide smoothly on.

I think of thee
When purple shadows creep from out the West,

It was the lovely moon—she lifted
Slowly her white brow among
Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted
Faintly, faintlier afar.
Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,
Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,
Watching the earth that dwindled under
Faintly, faintlier afar.
It was the lovely moon that lovelike
Hovered over the wandering, tired
Earth, her bosom gray and dovelike,
Hovering beautiful as a dove. . . .
The lovely moon:—her soft light falling
Lightly on roof and poplar and pine—
Tree to tree whispering and calling,

H ESPER , dear Hesper, golden lovely light,
Of Venus,—presence in the dark blue night,—
Only less lovely than the moon as far
As thou art bright to every other star;
Hail, loved one; and as she begins to-day
To go down early, hold me from above
Thy light, and let me be supplied by thee:—
I come not forth to steal or to way-lay;
I go to sup with one that waits for me;—
I love; and lovers should be helped with love.

There is a little naked child at the door,
His name is Beauty, and he cries,
“Behold, I am born, put me where I can live.”
The old World comes to the door,
And thrusting out a lip, says only this,
“It is true that you are born, but how were you conceived?”

There is an owl upon an elder-tree,
Who opening an eye, says only this.
“That is a lovely child!”
The old World said again,
“Yes! but how was he conceived?”

There is a gust of free wind,
And high cloud voices call.
“What can you ask of Love but conception?
Men are born of blest love,

a shooting star—
in love with someone, not knowing
where it will lead me