love poetry

INTENDED FOR MUSIC

Clad in flow'r-embroider'd veil,
Hail, auspicious morning, hail!
When in Hymen's holy bands
Blooming Emily, the fair,
And Eugenio, happy pair!
Chang'd their hearts, and join'd their hands.
Virgin coldness then relented,
Like the snow before the sun,
Then sweet Emily consented,
Not unwilling, to be won.

AIR

Believe me, love, I've kept the day,
But not with noise or glee —
I've cheer'd my heart, though far away,
With quiet thoughts of thee.

I have not breathed thy name above
The wine-cup's sparkling tide —
But oh! I've dreamt of all the love,
I've shared when by thy side.

The glowing picture of thy youth,
In maiden charms attired;
The vows of tenderness and truth
Thy modest worth inspired,

The ardent hopes, the anxious fears,
That mark our wedded lot —

Believe me, Love, dear inmate of my breast,
Friendship shall never break my faith with thee;
No, though too oft thou robb'st my soul of rest,
My solemn vows shall ever sacred be.

My heart, that proudly boasts the purest flame
That ever blazed before thy sacred shrine,
Can ne'er, seduced by friendship's specious name,
Confess her calmer joys are more divine.

By thee alone my soul has long been taught

O Strephon! how useless your Counsel must prove,
Who sighs for Belinda for ever must love;
For thus the dread Power of Love has decreed!
Who once wears her Fetters shall never be freed,
On absolute Beauty an absolute Sway
Is justly bestow'd, and with Pride we obey.

Thou com'st, fair daughter of the Spring!
Ah! must I shun thee, lovely May?
No more to thee sweet incense bring,
Or deck thy shrine with chaplets gay?

Far distant from thy sportive train,
Must I to some lone rock retreat?
There to the curling waves complain,
Who, pitying, wash my weary feet,

That I no more with pleasure see
Thy various beauties, lovely May, —
The op'ning flow'r, the blossom'd tree,

I.

'Tis strange, Belinda , you shou'd ask,
To learn , what you so oft bestow !
You now impose too hard a Task ,
And I my Weakness needs must show.

II.

What Love is not, I know full well:
Blind Mortals , when they talk of Pain,
And Joys of Heaven , or of Hell ,
By Negatives the Theme maintain.

III.

True Love is not that rash Desire,
That sudden Start of Grief , and Joy ,

From the Cradle to the Grave
Mighty Love does all inslave.
First in Miss , and Master 's Brain
He begins his idle reign:
Nymphs , and Swains , and purling Streams,
Rival Knights , and rival Queens ,
Dreams of Pleasure pure as they,
(Symptoms of approaching Day)
In their dawning Fancies play;
Wishes , which in forming dye,
Tender Sighs they scarce know why.
Sighs , at length, awake Desire ,
Love becomes a raging Fire ,
Strongly seizes every Part,
Warms the Blood, and wounds the Heart .

The morning beaming on the flowery beds,
Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace,
Is far less lovely than thy lovely face —
Where Lada all her rays of radiance spreads.
The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring,
Which paints the may-rose, has no tint to give
So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring,
With ever-living smiles that round them live.
The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer
Than the gold strings of the musician's bow,
So magical: — to what shall I compare her!

Take these few verses, all too idly done
In English, — pondering the weary while
Of English fields, and faces, and the smile
Of those we loved whose golden sands have run,
Of hopes that flowered not, duties scarce begun, —
Along the changeless banks of tawny Nile,
Or scanning Karnak's immemorial pile
Lit with the glory of the dying sun
My Poet sang them in a different scene,
Bright child of Paris, blent of joys and fears,
He loved, and sinned, and suffered, most serene
When winning most the poor man's mirth or tears:

My country calls me, Kraska! dry thine eyes,
Disturb not with thy tears youth's quiet flow;
Rend not my heart — nor chill thine own with sighs;
Thy rosy cheeks are mantled o'er with snow —
Weep not because thy Ceskian leaves thee — No!
The mighty lion on the flag unfurl'd,
Roars with loud voice, and bids the warriors go —
Wealth, heart, and blood — our country — and the world.

How sweet and silent were our early days,
Gliding like meadow streamlets soft and still;
Enjoyment threw o'er every hour its rays,