Nature never made
A heart all marble; but, in 'ts fissures, sows
The wild flower Love; from whose rich seeds spring forth
A world of mercies and sweet charities.

Look , where she stands! Hath the magician Love
Touched her to stone? No, no: she breathes, she moves!
Beauty sits bravely in her glittering eye;
And passion stains her cheek. What thoughts are these,
Unfolding like rose flowers at dawn of day?—
Methinks she sees the sunny Future lie
Basking before her.

Dost thou not love the golden antique time,
When knights and heroes, for a lady's love,
Would spear the dragon?
Or when Boccaccio's dames, now long ago,
Lay laughing on the grass, hearing and telling
Wild love adventures, witty merry tales,
That made the heart leap high. And yet, even they
Would sadden amidst their flowers, when that some story
(Like a rose unfolded) was betrayed, which shewed
What Love indeed was made of,—when the world—
Chance—falsehood—danger tried its truth till death,
And proved its hues unaltered.

I LOVE this light:
'Tis the old age of Day, methinks; or haply
The infancy of Night: pleasant it is.
Shall we be dreaming—Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart
Speaks, and the woods are still.

Love follows not desert, but accident.
We love—because we love: I know no more.
'Tis not great thoughts, nor noble qualities,
Nor conduct pure compel it. These rather challenge
Our deep respect than Love: That sweet emotion
Owes to our tender hearts its gentle force.
And scorns all meaner reason.

In Love's garden next I stood
Mid the myrtle's green increase,
Where great roses red as blood
Dreamed their passion into peace.
From his mansion marvellous
Made of amorous apple-boughs, —
Whose soft slow blush-tinted showers
Knolled the noiseless-footed hours, —
Forth came Love, a shepherd lad,
Star-eyed, ruddy-limbed, unclad,
Bringing flower-wine of his valleys
In a sorrow-charming chalice,
Spiced with myrrh and magic root.
Straight I drank: the while his flute
Gurgling loosed my speechless grief,

What will Love not compel! Though Pudens murmured " No,"
Yet he did not prevent young Encolpos, and so
He cut off his hair, while his master wept sore
And complained, like Apollo and Phaethon of yore;
Than Hylas more fair or Achilles, when he
Rejoiced from his mother's love-locks to be free;
In return for the gift may he beardless remain,
And though his hair's short seem a boy once again.

That diamond, emerald, and sard
Adorn my Stella's hand,
That jaspers bright should deck the bard
I well can understand.

For as he set a lovely lay
With jewels bright and rare,
A few escaped, and these are they
That now his hand doth wear.

When native virtue, love of martial fame,
Were the rich trophies of each glorious name;
When noble daring bade perfidious France
Draw the keen blade, or " couch the quiv'ring lance; "
Then, how averse to foreign modes and arts,
Those treach'rous trifles that unman our hearts!
They scorn'd her motley manners with disdain,
And found, in Reason's scale, her fopp'ries vain:
Then each accomplish'd Dame resplendent shone
In charms unrivall'd, charms that were her own;
While the interior beauties of her mind,

In vain the youth his utmost art essay'd,
Persuasion mov'd not, nor soft pity sway'd;
But ere he went, his last respect to shew,
Seven Ermine skins, that rival'd Greenland's snow,
With five fair Swans, he as a tribute gave,
And Seals fresh bleeding from the briny wave,
With marble lamps, and oil of curious taste,
To deck her board, and crown the rich repast:
With joy resin'd, this gift the nymph receiv'd,
Sweet proof of love, from him in whom she liv'd;
Then, trembling, wish'd the parting pang was o'er,
While pitying sighs her love-lorn bosom tore.