Where the fond zephyr through the woodbine plays,
And wakes sweet fragrance in the mantling bow'r,
Near to that grove my lovely bridegroom stays
Impatient,—for 'tis past—the promis'd hour!

Lend me thy light, O ever-sparkling star!
Bright Hesper! in thy glowing pomp array'd,
Look down, look down, from thy all-glorious car,
And beam protection on a wandering maid.

'Tis to escape the penetrating spy,
And pass, unnotic'd, from malignant sight,
This dreary waste, full resolute, I try,
And trust my footsteps to the shades of night.

'Tis said that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found
In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn's side:
He loved--the pretty Barbara died;
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made:

"Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke

Thou thinkst thou Beautie see'st; But Cannst not knowe
Or butt beleiu'est Some foole that told thee so.
Suspend thy nose-witt, till flesh in hir Vme,
Past nine muskcatts Lifes, to Sweet Powder turne.
Say thou mayst touch or tast: if that be all
Thy Loue is Brute, thou a meere animall.

Sometimes, in the slime of a city street,
You will see a clear and lovely pattern
Of little loops and triangles
Imprinted by the tire
Of a motor truck.

Such was the life of No Sho,
The young and tender poet.
The city crushed him,
But he left his runes

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,