ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS
WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND.

Beautiful eyes,—­and shall I see no more
The living thought when it would leap from them,
And play in all its sweetness ’neath their lids?

Here was a man familiar with fair heights
That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears
And troubles of our race deep inroads made,
Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart
At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,—­
“God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,—­
The true one!” O sweet eyes, that seem to live,

In vain, alas! poor Strephon tries
To ease his tortured breast,
Since Amoret the cure denies,
And makes his pain a jest.

Ah! fair one, why to me so coy,
And why to him so true?
Who with more coldness slights the joy
Than I with love pursue.

Die, then, unhappy lover, die;
For since she gives thee death,
The world has nothing that can buy
A minute more of breath.

Yet though I could your scorn outlive,
'Twere folly, since to me
Not love itself a joy can give,
But, Amoret, in thee.

Since by ill fate I'm forced away,
And snatch'd so soon from those dear arms,
Against my will I must obey,
And leave those sweet endearing charms.

Yet still love on, and never fear
But you and constancy will prove
Enough my present flame to bear,
And make me, though in absence, love.

For though your presence Fate denies,
I feel, alas! the killing smart,
And can with undiscerned eyes
Behold your picture in my heart.

Farewell, Amynta, we must part;
The charm has lost its power
Which held so fast my captived heart
Until this fatal hour.

Hadst thou not thus my love abused,
And used me ne'er so ill,
Thy cruelty I had excused,
And I had loved thee still.

But know, my soul disdain'd thy sway,
And scorns thy charms and thee,
To which each fluttering coxcomb may
As welcome be as me.

Think in what perfect bliss you reign'd,
How loved before thy fall,
And now, alas! how much disdain'd
By me, and scorn'd by all.

Love! inform thy faithful creature
How to keep his fair one's heart;
Must it be by truth of nature,
Or by poor dissembling art?
Tell the secret, show the wonder,
How we both may gain our ends;
I am lost if we're asunder,
Ever tortured if we're friends.

Act II, Scene iv, Air IV—Cotillion

Youth’s the season made for joys,
Love is then our duty:
She alone who that employs,
Well deserves her beauty.
Let’s be gay
While we may,
Beauty’s a flower despised in decay.

Chorus. Youth’s the season, etc.

Let us drink and sport to-day,
Ours is not to-morrow:
Love with youth flies swift away,

WHITE little hands!
Pink little feet!
Dimpled all over,
Sweet, sweet, sweet!
What dost thou wail for?
The unknown? the unseen?
The ills that are coming,
The joys that have been?

Cling to me closer,
Closer and closer,
Till the pain that is purer
Hath banish’d the grosser.
Drain, drain at the stream, love,
Thy hunger is freeing,
That was born in a dream, love,
Along with thy being!

Little fingers that feel
For their home on my breast,
Little lips that appeal

O my Lorena,
You I miss;
Give me kiss.
I want to give you
Morning dew,
Love and peace.

O my Dove
Beautiful,
O my Love
Warm and cool,
I want you to take
To love-lake,
To love-beach.

Every day
Every night
To get you
I do fight.
I want to gain you,
Obtain you,
You to reach.

2.
I have made,
Lorena,
A love-bed,
Lorena;
Won't you come
To stay there
Forever?

The bed is
made of peace;
There we will
hug and kiss;
When I will

'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,
Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,
Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky.
They fade like dew in the morning beam,
Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.

'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou are fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
Even the sighs of grief