'T IS hard from love to spare the heart,
'Tis pain to feel his wounding dart,
But greater still, the loss, the pain,
To love, alas! and love in vain.
Wit, wisdom, birth, and beauty fade,
The beams of dazling gold display'd,
Curs'd be the wretch, the first who sold
His birth-right liberty, for gold,
Gold, that can murd'ring hands employ,
And brothers, fathers, sons, destroy;
Gold unresisted rules the ball,
By gold whole hosts, whole nations fall,
Yet more my sighs with grief reveal,
That love the force of gold can feel.

As of old the wildered dove,
Wandering over waters dark,
Finding neither fount nor grove,
Sought shelter in her home, the ark,

So my little one, my love,
Turns my restless heart to thee,
Weary, wheresoe'er she rove
O'er the inhospitable sea.

Time hath linked us heart to heart
With links of mutual memory,
Of gentle power if aught would part
To bind us close until we die.

If the world arise to sever,
Steals a tiny spirit-hand,
Glides to reunite us ever,
From the holy silent land.

Find the birthplace of sweet Love;

When shadows o'er the landscape creep,
And twinkling stars pale vigils keep;
When flower-cups all with dew-drops gleam,
And moonshine floweth like a stream;
Then is the hour
That hearts which love no longer dream,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake,
And amorous leaves sweet music wake;
When slumber steals o'er every eye,
And Dian's self shines drowsily;
Then is the hour
That hearts which love with rapture sigh,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!

In secret Yearning for thy Preservation,
Endeared Friend, I send the Salutation
Of Love unfeign'd, and heartily desire
Its pure Refining Flame may ne'er expire,
Or be extinguish'd: For 'twas said of old,
Iniquities abound, when Love grows cold.
Now, though thy silent Pen doth testifie,
There's some (yet latent) cause of Jealousie:
I'll not my Rival envy, if it be
One worthy to be entertain'd by thee,
Without Detraction from that innate Worth,
Whereto (I hope) thou art by second Birth
Entituled. But can Affairs so crow'd,

Upon the lonely moorland,
Ah, what a weary day!
The stream was loud and turbid,
The sombre sky was grey;
And though the gorse was golden,
My love was far away.

Upon the lonely moorland,
Ah, what a weary day!
The town was grey below me,
Beyond, the sea was grey;
And though the gorse was golden,
My love was far away.

Over the lonely moorland
There stole at last a ray
Of sunlight through the rifting
Of sombre clouds and grey;
Though sun and gorse were golden,
My love was far away.

Across the barren moorland

The breezy morning breath'd perfume.
The wakening flow'rs unveil'd their bloom,
Up with the sun, from short repose,
Gay Health and lusty Labour rose;
The milk-maid caroll'd at her pail,
And shepherds whistled o'er the dale,
When Love, who led a rural life,
Remote from bustle, state, and strife,
Forth from his thatch'd-roof cottage stray'd,
And stroll'd along the dewy glade.
A nymph, who lightly tripp'd it by,
To quick attention turn'd his eye;
He mark'd the gesture of the fair,
Her self-sufficient grace and air,

Full of the fever of a hopeless love,
My heart's wild worship still is all thine own:
Unchanged—unchangeable—though doomed to move
O'er life's dim waste alone.

Ah! all too deep for words of mortal breath,
My lonely love is one perpetual smart;
Fain would I woo the quiet sleep of death
For this unquiet heart!

'Tis death to see thee in thy joyousness—
To meet thine eye, the smile upon thy lips,
And feel this world a blighted wilderness,
And life a vast eclipse!

So sad and weary! I would ask no more

My heart! my pulse! my flame!
O the gloom, O the pain!
He has no wish to save me
Who will not come again.

Love! Love! Love!
The fair cheek, the dark hair,
The promise forgotten;
'Twill go with me there.

False! false! false!
O, youth is false for ever:
He loves far more than living me—
The lifeless heather.

The hunting field,
The greenwood tree,
The trout, the running deer, he loves,
Far more than me.

He loves—loves—loves
To stalk the frightened doe;
He never heeds the pain he gives,
His skill to show.

Dear, we have sat with Beauty, you and I,
And trembled with a thought of viewless things,
So fleet, so frail, so seeming-sure to die,
Yet strong with wonder of ethereal wings;

Have sat in trance to Loveliness, with Love
Beside us, in a precious pact of three:
Love, loveliness and you—it sounds above
All earthly discords, like a song to me!


And though we transiently are driven apart,
And absence is an ache and an alloy;
We carry that shy music in our heart,
And we return to find but deeper joy.

Go, idle boy, I quit thy power,
Thy couch of many a thorn and flower,
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd surprise, the roguish leer,
The tender smile, the thrilling tear,
Have now no pangs—no joys for me,
So, fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,
Or take thy beverage from the rose,
Or on Louisa's breast repose,
I wish thee well for pleasures past,
Yet bless the hour I'm free at last!
But sure methinks the alter'd day