love poetry

On, on towards Our Lady's shrine
The faithful Walter rode;
Before it kneeled a youthful maid,
Bowed down by sorrow's load.
" Oh stay, my Walter! Stay, mine own!
Know'st thou no more my voice's tone,
Which once thou heardst so gladly?

" Whom see I here? the maid untrue
That once, alas! was mine?
Where hast thou left thy silken robes,
Thy gold, thy jewels fine? "

I haue a loue thats faire,
soe constant, firme, & kinde!
shee is w i thout compare,
whose favor doth me blind!
shee is the flower of Maids tha t hath beene, is, or can bee!
when beautyes garlands made, itshalbe borne by Nancye.
Her golden haire w i th a face soe fayre,
her cheekes like snow where roses grow;
Pretty Nancy lipps w i th a breath soe sweete,
a pretty chin w i th a dimple in,
hath woone my hart euen for her p ar t;
Pretty Nancy, my M istres s of true constancy!

T HIRSIS , a young and am'rous Swain,
Saw two, the Beauties of the Plain;
Who both his Heart subdue:
Gay Caelia 's Eyes were dazzling fair,
Sabina 's easy Shape and Air
With softer Magic drew.

He haunts the Stream, he haunts the Grove,
Lives in a fond Romance of Love,
And seems for each to die;
'Till each a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Caelia 's Shape ran down,
And she Sabina 's Eye.

LOVE wakes and weeps
While Beauty sleeps!
O for music's softest numbers,
To prompt a theme
For Beauty's dream,
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!

Through groves of palm
Sigh gales of balm,
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;
While through the gloom
Comes soft perfume,
The distant beds of flowers revealing.

O wake and live!
No dreams can give
A shadowed bliss, the real excelling;
No longer sleep,
From lattice peep,
And list the tale that Love is telling!

I SAW a mother holding
Her play-worn baby son,
Her pliant arms enfolding
The drooping little one.

Her lips were made of sweetness,
And sweet the eyes above;
With infantile completeness
He yielded to her love.

And I who saw the heaving
Of breast to dimpling cheek,
Have felt, within, the weaving
Of thoughts I cannot speak;

Have felt myself the nestling,
All strengthless, love-enisled;
Have felt myself the mother
Abrood above her child.

TO-DAY a Singer is dead whose silence grieves
A distant Nation towering great and strong.
What hath he done that earns her love? He leaves
America's air the sweeter for his song.

What doom is this, I fain would know,
That deemeth by all contraries:
What God, whether He be high or low,
Now would I learn some warranties.
Some say the blinded God above,
Is He that worketh all by love,
But He that stirreth strife, the truth to tell,
I always feel, but know not well.

Some say Alectis with her mates
Are they which breedeth all anoy,
Who sit like hags in hellish gates,
And seek still whom they may destroy.
Some say again 'tis destiny,


But how it comes, or what it is,

AS WEET CONTENTION BETWEEN L OVE, HIS Mistress AND B EAUTY

L OVE and my Mistress were at strife
Who had the greatest power on me;
Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
Nay, what a death is this to be!

She said, she did it with her eye;
He said, he did it with his dart;
Betwixt them both (Asilly wretch!)
'Tis I that have the wounded heart

She said, she only spake the word
That did enchant my peering sense;
He said, he only gave the sound
That enter'd heart without defence

*****

In loving arms enraptured rest,
Ye whom the joys of life enthral;
A single glance my lot hath blest,
Yet makes me rich beyond you all!

The joys of earth I hold but light,
And, like the martyr, upward gaze;
For o'er me in the distance bright
Its open portals heav'n displays.

In truth is trust, distrust not then my truthe
Let vertue liue. I aske no greater love;
Of suche regarde, repentance not ensuthe,
And hope of heavne doth highest hono r p've.

In truthe sume time it was a sweete conceite
To see how loue and life dyd dwell togeth er ;
But now in truthe there is so muche deceite
That truth in deede is gone I know not whether.

Yitt liueth truthe and hath her secrett loue,