love poetry

dedication,

My hart dear Lord, itt is thine own
thou disdst itt make
Tis thine I say, and thine alone
Oh let it of thy grace pertake
and beautifie
it from on high

Thou calst for it, & here, I give
it up to thee
Oh let thy spirit, in it live
And purg out sin, that it may be
the dwelling place
of love, and grace.

Acept the dedication
of this my hart
And lett it be to me made known
by glorys filling ev'ry part
thy love display
on it alway.

Love, September 1 72

Ther is one thing, which I would crave
The which alone, if I might have
it would sufice
And be my heaven, upon earth
Keeping my soull, free from all dearth
Love, is the grace I prize.

T'would be a heav'n in midst of hell
If love enflam'd, in me might dwell
give that to me
And then I shall not, will not care
For this worlds, overgiulded ware
but shall hasten to thee.

Love would my soull from self unty
And teach it sweetly, to deny
it self in what

Infinet love of Christ

What love is this, that bouled in
The breast of our sweet, sacred king.

From ages of eternity
He did resovle, to come, and dye.

That he might fallen man regain
And bring him back, with him to reign.

Oh how this love should make us blush
Thou hadst (deer Lord) no need of us.

To thine esencyall glory we
Could adde nothing, at all to thee.

thou couldst in thine alfullnese dwell
had we been, in the lowest hell.

I

I T chanced while being in that idle mood
When every vagrant object from without,
Through the dim windows which our senses make,
Hath liberty to cast upon the mind
Its shadow, as it passes and is lost,
That I sate toying with a blotting-pad,
And with a thousand thoughts fantastical
Watched the innumerable glancing waves
Upspringing, 'neath the touches of the sun,
Whose fingers swept the playful ocean crests,
And forming in the region of the clouds
A lovely continent of fairy lands,

1. THE FEAR OF LOVE

O could my love devise
A shield for you from envious lips and eyes
That desecrate the sweetness of your days
With tumults of their praise!

O could my love design
A secret, sealed, invulnerable shrine
To hide you, happy and inviolate,
From covetous Time and Fate.

Love, I am drenched with fear
Lest the uncounted avarice of the year
Add to the triumph of all garnered grace
The rapture of your face!

I tremble with despair

1. THE OFFERING

Were beauty mine, beloved, I would bring it
Like a rare blossom to Love's glowing shrine;
Were dear youth mine, beloved, I would fling it
Like a rich pearl into Love's lustrous wine:

Were greatness mine, Beloved, I would offer
Such radiant gifts of glory and of fame,
Like camphor and like curds to pour and proffer
Before Love's bright and sacrificial flame.

But I have naught save my heart's deathless passion
That craves no recompense divinely sweet,

8

" The little hand of Telmarine
Presses thy bosom, Etheline!
The soft warm cheek of Telmarine
Rests on thy cold face, Etheline.
Konig's blue eyes, in Telmarine
Smile on the softer blue of thine
Is it not well? " said Adwick, sighing;
" Art thou not happy? " " Yes, and dying,
My Adwick! " pressing with her own
His hand, she said, in sweetest tone, Her eyes on his o'erflowing eyes
Fix'd, " I am dying. Be not thou
(My Friend! my Love!) offended now,
That my soul yearns again to see

10.

" Not lonely here? " confus'd, he said;
And from his lip its colour fled,
When, at her feet, he saw a child,
The little foundling, Telmarine.
With Telma's smile, on him it smil'd,
With Telma's locks of raven hue,
And upturn'd eyes of darkest blue.
Confus'd, he nam'd its mother's name!
While pale, as death's cold brow, became
The cheek of Etheline.

11.

" Telma! " he said; nor waited long
Ere seem'd at once to come and go
The shadow of a shape of woe,

Passion, love, adoration! Fine the links
That in progressive process join these three,
Cursed is that soul, which gifted, basely sinks
From last of these to that first named! So he,
Who is so wise, if he defeated be
In passion, and in love, to raise his thought
In adoration, from th' idolatry
Of passion, and of love, will soon be taught
That superhuman bliss is by the latter brought.

As to Religion's cause, one well might hope,
Rather to gain th' idolater, than one
Who loves in atheistic gloom to mope: —
So may we rather hope he may be won
To love his God, him whom the fervid sun
Of love hath fevered, whose still earnest eye
Some outward idol still is fixed upon,
Than him in self-involved captivity,
Who thinks he's free since self doth doom his slavery.