love poetry

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH .

Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!

Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!

" Break ev'ry yoke; " the Gospel cries,
" And let th' oppress'd go free; "
Let ev'ry burden'd captive rise,
And taste sweet Liberty.

Lord! when shall man thy voice obey,
And rend each iron chain?
Oh! when shall Love its golden sway
O'er all the earth maintain?

Send thy good Spirit from above,
And melt th' oppressor's heart;
Send swift deliv'rance to the slave,
And bid his woes depart.

With joy and gladness crown his day,
And fill his heart with love;

I told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few,
While falt'ring accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.

Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold;
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, changed by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I loved became unkind;
She heard, and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, if she deign my love to bless,

WRITTEN AT OXFORD, WHEN YOUNG .

Shall Love alone for ever claim
An universal right to fame,
An undisputed sway?
Or has not Music equal charms,
To fill the breast with strange alarms.
And make the world obey?

The Thracian bard, as poets tell,
Could mitigate the powers of hell,
E'en Pluto's nicer ear:
His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To deities or men confined,

My land is a woman who knows
Not the child at her breast.
All her quest
Hath been gold.
All her joys, all her woes
With the thin, yellow leaf are unrolled.
And here is my grief that no longer she cares
For the tumult that crowds in a rune
When the white curving throat of a cataract bares
In a song to the high floating moon.
I am Caneo,
The poet she loves not, grown bold.
Bold am I as all men grow bold
Who wash themselves long in the sun:
I know what she lost when she gathered the gold

O charity! thou heav'nly grace,
All-tender, soft, and kind,
A friend to all the human race,
To all that's good inclin'd!

The man of charity extends
To all his helping hand;
His kindred, neighbors, foes, and friends,
His pity may command.

He aids the poor in their distress;
He hears when they complain;
With tender heart delights to bless,
And lessen all their pain.

The sick, the pris'ner, deaf, and blind,
And all the sons of grief,
In him a benefactor find;

How blest are they whom mutual passions move
To seal a contract at the shrine of love;
From whose fond hearts the same affections flow,
To join in pleasure, and partake of woe.
If thro' life's course full prosp'rous blows the gale,
And fortune revels in the swelling sail;
One heart expands to see the other fill,
Whilst each anticipates its partner's will.
One just is pleas'd as th'other teems with joy,
And mutual pleasures flow without alloy.
Their wish, when death the busy scene wou'd close,

( " Vous êtes singulier. " )

Marion ( smiling ). You're strange, and yet I love you thus.
D IDIER. You love me?
Beware, nor with light lips utter that word.
You love me! — know you what it is to love
With love that is the life-blood in one's veins,
The vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered,
Smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing,
And purifying in its growth the soul.
Allove that from the heart eats every passion
But its sole self; love without hope or limit,
Deep love that will outlast all happiness;

Sylvia! see yon wanton turtles,
Ever billing, ever gay,
Perch'd on Venus ' verdant myrtles,
Ev'ry month the month of May!
All the day,
Love and play;
O how happy, happy they!

Mark the bliss of ev'ry creature,
The delights of ev'ry grove;
All, one jubilee of nature,
All, one gen'ral feast of love!
All the day,
Love and play;
O how happy, happy they!

Mark the shepherd in yon alley,
On his mistress' lap reclin'd;
Lambkins, straying on the valley,

( " Orphee au bois du Caystre. " )

Orpheus, in Cayster's tangled
Woodways, 'neath the stars' pale light,
Listened laughters weird and jangled
Of the viewless ones of night.

Phtas, the Theban sibyl, dreaming
Nigh the hushed Phygalian heights,
Saw on far horizon streaming
Ebon forms 'mong silvery lights.

Æschylus, soft hazes threading
Of sweet Sicily, soul-subdued