I HAVE sought Love, and sought him everywhere;
Once in a wood I saw his gleaming hair
Flash from afar, but drawing nearer found
A startled satyr leaping from his lair.

And canst thou have forgotten wholly
How long thy heart was mine, mine solely?
That small heart so sweet, and so false, and so wee,
Nought sweeter, nought falser could ever be.

Canst thou have forgotten the love and anguish
Wherewith my heart oppressed did languish?
I know not if love was greater than care,
I only know how great both were.

Yes, thou art wretched, and all grudge departs.
O Love, we cannot 'scape from wretchedness.
Till Death himself shall break our stricken hearts,
O Love, we cannot 'scape from wretchedness.

The mockery on thy lip, I see it well;
I see defiance flashing from thine eye;
I see the pride which makes thy bosom swell—
Yet art thou wretched, wretched even as I.

But pain will twitch the lip unseen of all;
In that proud bosom hidden wounds do lie;
That eye is dimmed by tears that dare not fall—
O Love, we must be wretched—till we die.

Thou must twine thee so lovingly round me,
Thou woman, dear, lovely and warm;
Till with arms and with feet thou hast bound me,
And with all the lithe grace of thy form.

Then she threw herself mightily on me;
She twined, and she wound, and she pressed;
She won me, most beautiful serpent!
Her Laocöon the thrice blest.

The lotus-blossom trembles
At the Sun's resplendent light,
And waits with drooping forehead
In dreams the coming night.

The moon he is her leman,
And wakes her from her dreams;
Her chaste flower-face unveiling,
To him, she meets his beams.

She beams and glows and glimmers,
Her upward gaze she strains,
Pours forth her tears and perfume
Of Love, and Love's sweet pains.

On wings of song I'd bear thee
Away whom I love so well;
Away to the Ganges' prairie;
I know where 'tis fair to dwell.

There in the still noon is sleeping
A gorgeous-flowered grove;
The lotus-flowers are keeping
Watch for the sister they love.

The violets prattle and flutter,
And gaze at the stars above;
In secret the roses utter
Their fragrant stories of love.

Lithe, gentle gazelles come bounding
Nearer to list to the rose;
Afar you may hear resounding,
The Sacred Stream as it flows.

There will we slumber, sinking

The rose and the lily, the dove and the sun,
With a passionate love I once loved every one.
I love them no more—but I love the completest,
The neatest and meetest, discreetest and sweetest.
She herself is love's well-spring, and other there's none,
For she's rose and she's lily, she's dove and she's sun.

Out of my tears many flowers
In rarest bloom arise,
And the songs of a chorus of nightingales
Re-echo out of my sighs.

And little one, if thou wilt love me,
Thine all the flowers shall be;
And the nightingale at thy window
Shall carol his blithest for thee.

There were four-and-twenty ladies dined i the Queen's ha,
And Jean o Bethelnie was the flower o them a'.

Four-and-twenty gentlemen rode thro Banchory fair,
But bonny Glenlogie was the flower that was there.

Young Jean at a window she chanced to sit nigh,
And upon Glenlogie she fixed an eye.

She called on his best man, unto him did say,
O what is that knight's name? or where does he stay?

‘He 's of the noble Gordons, of great birth and fame;
He stays at Glenlogie, Sir George is his name.’

Then she wrote a broad letter, and wrote it in haste;