love poetry

Mother of Dante and Raffaelle — I TALY ,
Poets will ever love thy skies of calm,
And voice of music, and warm breath of balm,
And glorious forms of grace and majesty! —
Old Chaucer loved thee for Boccaccio's stories —
Spenser for Tasso's; and Milton trod
Thy viny fields — Milton, minstrel of God, —
And loved idolatrously thy olden glories.
As poets have loved thee, do thou love them —
And chiefly one who wanders now thy land;
Be as the fondest lover unto him;
And shield him from the savage bandit's hand,

High peace to the soul of the dead,
From the dream of the world she has gone!
On the stars in her glory to tread,
To be bright in the blaze of the throne.

In youth she was lovely; and Time,
When her rose with the cypress he twined,
Left her heart all the warmth of its prime,
Left her eye all the light of her mind.

The summons came forth, — and she died!
Yet her parting was gentle, for those
Whom she loved, mingled tears at her side —
Her death was the mourner's repose.

I.

With many a plant, with many a flower,
My lattice, my casement is gleaming,
In whose spreading bells, at midnight's hour,
Many a fairy lies dreaming.
To-night! to-night! when all are at rest,
(Unless, my love, you abhor it,)
I mean to think what 'tis I love best,
And ask some light fairy for it.

II.

Come, whisper me, love, within this bower,
What you count as the greatest blessing,

You ask, dear Car , what mistress I would chufe?
Not one too strictly coy, nor yet too loose;
Whose unaffected character would prove
Like Delia modest, yet a friend to love;
No prudish air to damp the genial joy,
And charms enough to satisfy, — not cloy.

I.

As Beauty was rambling o'er Pleasure's ground,
And threading many a mazy grove,
Oh! who do you think she sleeping found?
But Love! sweet Love!
Well pleas'd, she sought no longer to roam,
But plac'd the boy in her bosom fair,
And brought him, sleeping, in safety home,
To flourish there.

II.

But Beauty went out the very next day,
To sail on a lake the sun shone on,
And when she return'd, fatigu'd with play;

I.

In former times, dear Wit was whirl'd
Through azure clouds above,
To take a trip all round the world,
And try and find out Love.
From his light home as he came forth,
In chariot and a pair,
Says he, " I'll drive towards the North,
" And see if Love be there. "

II.

But soon the North he left in ire,
And said, " Those heaps I see
" Of drifted snow, would chill Love's fire,

Quoth an inquirer, " Praise the Merciful!
My thumb which yesterday a scorpion nipped —
(It swelled and blackened) — lo, is sound again!
By application of a virtuous root
The burning has abated: that is well:
But now methinks I have a mind to ask, —
Since this discomfort came of culling herbs
Nor meaning harm, — why needs a scorpion be?
Yea, there began, from when my thumb last throbbed,
Advance in question framing, till I asked
Wherefore should any evil hap to man —
From ache of flesh to agony of soul —

I.

I dreamt Love lay in a rose-bud's breast,
And Hope plac'd the plant in the sun's bright ray;
When awoke by the beam on his place of rest,
Love rose like a zephyr, and flew away.
Now Wisdom, it chanc'd, a garden had,
And Love, all carelessly, wander'd there,
Crushing each flowret bright and glad,
That loaded with perfume the fragrant air.

II.

Wisdom, the boy caught up in her hand,

I.

As Love and Folly rambled on
O'er many a mount and garden gay,
Time's brightest hours still flew on,
And noon and twilight pass'd away; —
The night came down — Love loudly knock'd
At Wisdom's gate, who from within
Exclaim'd, " My doors are safely lock'd,
" And Love and Folly can't get in. "

II.

Love came to me, and told his tale,
And I resolv'd, beyond all doubt,

( " S'il est un charmant gazon. " )

If there be a velvet sward
By dewdrops pearly drest,
Where through all seasons fairies guard
Flowers by bees carest,
Where one may gather, day and night,
Roses, honeysuckle, lily white,
I fain would make of it a site
For thy foot to rest.

If there be a loving heart