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To Sarah Taylor

Sweet are the thoughts that stir the virgin's breast,
When Love first enters there a timid guest;
Before her dazzled eyes gay visions shine,
And laughing Cupids wreaths of roses twine;
And conscious Beauty hastens to employ
Her span of empire and her dream of joy.

Sarah, not thus to thee his power is shown.
More stern he greets thee from his awful throne;
Thee, called to bid thy cheering converse flow,
And shed thy sweetness in the house of woe;
The solemn sympathies of grief to share,
And, sadly smiling, soothe a sister's care.

To Dr. Aiken

Within the cot the Muses love,
May Peace reside, that household dove!
Beneath this roof, around this hearth,
Mild Wisdom mix with social Mirth!
May Friendship often seek the door
Where Science pours her varied store!
Her richest dyes may Flora spread,
And early paint the garden's bed!
May Health descend with healing wing,
Bright days and balmy nights to bring!
And tried Affection still be by,
Love's watchful ear and anxious eye;
And Sport and Laughter hither move,
To bless the cot the Muses love!

On Windermere

I

Droop , droop, soft little eyelids!
Droop over eyes of weird wild blue!
Under the fringe of those tremulous shy lids
Glances of love and of fun peep through.

II

Sing, sing, sweetest of maidens!
Carol away with thy white little throat!
Echo awakes to the exquisite cadence,
Here on the magical mere afloat.

III

Dream, dream, heart of my own love!
Sweet is the wind from the odorous south —

Olive Waynflete's Song

I

Sweet it is by the Summer river
Where oleanders blush rose-red,
When the delicate eyelids quiver,
When with kisses young lips are fed.
Ay, you have known it! Own it . . . own it!
This is the joy the good gods send:
Love's gay rhyme is older than Time is . . .
Ah, but all must have an end!

II

Love was made to madden and plague us,
Fresh as the flowers of the river-bed,
Sharp as the sword that's dipt in Tagus,
Sad with delight and sweet with dread.

The Asra

Täglich ging die wunderschone

Daily came the lone and lovely
Sultan's daughter, slowly wandering
In the evening to the fountain
Where the plashing waters whitened.

Daily stood the youthful captive
In the evening by the fountain
Where the plashing waters whitened —
Daily growing pale and paler . . .

Till one dusk the strolling Princess
Stopped and spoke a hurried sentence:
" Tell me now thy name, and tell me
Of thy country and thy kindred. "

And the slave replied, " My name is
Mohamet; I come from Yemen.

Away!

Der Tag ist in die Nacht verliebt

The Day is enamored of Night,
And Spring is entranced by Winter,
Life is in love with Death,
And you — are in love with me!

You love me — look, and even now
Gray shadows seem to fold you;
All of your blossoming fades
And your white soul lies bleeding.

Oh shrink from me, and only love
The butterflies light-hearted,
That sport among the golden beams . . .
Oh shrink from me — and all things bitter.

Psyche

In der Hand die kleine Lampe

With a small lamp in her fingers
And a great glow in her breast,
Psyche creeps into the chamber
Where the Sleeper is at rest.

She grows frightened and she blushes
As she sees his beauty bare —
While the god of love awakens,
And his pinions beat the air . . .

Eighteen hundred years of penance!
She, poor soul, still fasts with awe;
Almost dead, because she came where
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