T HERE'S a song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear.
And even amidst the grand and gay,
When Music tries her gentlest art
I never hear so sweet a lay,
Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,—
Even the hope, lingering now,
Like the last of the leaves left on
Autumn's sere and faded bough,—

At Derby Haven, in the sweet Manx land,
A little girl had written on the sand
This legend:—“God is love.” But when I said:—
“What means this writing?” thus she answered:—
“It's father that's at say,
And I come here to pray,
And. . . . God is love.” My eyes grew dim—
Blest child! in Heaven above
Your angel sees the face of Him
Whose name is Love!

He loves! If in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead—
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy—he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress—
Her little dainty gloves—
Her withered flowers—her faded tress—
Plead for my boy—he loves!

Near the banks of that lone river,
Where the water-lilies grow,
Breathed the fairest flower that ever
Bloomed and faded years ago.

How we met and loved and parted,
None on earth can ever know—
Nor how pure and gentle-hearted
Beamed the mourned one years ago!

Like the stream with lilies laden,
Will life's future current flow,
Till in heaven I meet the maiden
Fondly cherished years ago.

Hearts that love like mine forget not;
They're the same in weal or wo;
And that star of memory set not
In the grave of years ago.

I NEVER have been false to thee!—
The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
And I no more may call thee mine!
I 've loved, as woman ever loves,
With constant soul in good or ill:
Thou 'st proved as man too often proves,
A rover—but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops
To bind thee captive in my train!—
Love's not a flower at sunset droops,
But smiles when comes her god again!
Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
Lovely golden chain and burning vow

Blossoms culled, more posies bloom,
Pansies plucked, more pansies grow,
Streams that feed insatiate seas,
Still gain volume as they flow.

Souls that share their gifts with all,
Garner love to share again—
They radiate their fragrance, like
Full-blown roses after rain.

Think not that from defect of love arise
These anxious questionings, tormenting fears;
Though dim your image in your lover's eyes,
Oh, argue not disloyalty from tears!

No; it is love's excess. The barren moon
With cloudless luster fills a winter night;
While storm-clouds lower all a sultry noon,
Veiling the orb that wrought them by his might.

If I have spoken
Of my love, it is to the slow stream
That hearkens when I lean
Above it; if I have spoken
Of my love, it is to the wind
That laughs and whispers in the leaves;
If I have spoken of my love, it is to the bird
That passes singing
With the wind;
If I have spoken,
The echo heard.

If I have loved with a great love,
In sad or joyous wise,
It was your eyes;
If I have loved with a great love,
It was your mouth so grave and sweet,
It was your mouth;
If I have loved with a great love,

Now, some there are who whisper love,
And some there are who shout it;
And there are others—see above—
Who merely talk about it.

It's well enough fine words to spill,
Whate'er the lady's station;
But something more is asked for, Bill,
Than highflown conversation.

Young Romeo could talk all day;
Than his no words are warmer.
But when it came to loving—say,
That boy was some performer!

Though ladies fair, of every sort,
Admire a chaste expression,
Don't talk yourself clear out of court,
But exercise discretion.

If love's a folly, what am I,
Who love beyond expression?
If 'tis a crime to be in love,
How great is my transgression!

Then cruel charmer, O! be kind,
And pass my final sentence,
For I am weary of my chains,
And languish for repentance.