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Brand

I BRAND

Thou trod'st the shifting sand path where man's race is.
The print of thy soft sandals is still clear.
I too have trodden it those prints a-near,
But the sea washes out my tired foot-traces.
And all that thou hast healed and holpen here
I yearned to heal and help and wipe the tear
Away. But still I trod unpeopled spaces.
I had no twelve to follow my pure paces.
For I had thy misgivings and thy fear,
Thy crown of scorn, thy suffering's sharp spear,
Thy hopes, thy longings — only not thy dear

The Spring the new, the warb'ling Spring appears

Let those love now, who never lov'd before,
Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.

The Spring , the new, the warb'ling Spring appears,
The youthful Season of reviving Years;
In Spring the Loves enkindle mutual Heats,
The feather'd Nation chuse their tuneful Mates,
The Trees grow fruitful with descending Rain
And drest in diff'ring Greens adorn the Plain.
She comes; to morrow Beauty's Empress roves
Thro' Walks that winding run within the Groves;
She twines the shooting Myrtle into Bow'rs,

Courtship

Amaze then tooke him,
Impudence, and Shame
Made Earthquakes in him,
with their Frost and Flame:
His Heart betwixt them tost,
till Reverence
Tooke all these Prisoners in him:
and from thence
Her matchless beauty,
with astonishment
Increast his bands:
till Aguish Love, that lent
Shame, and Observance,
licenc'st their remove;
And wisely liking
Impudence in Love:
Silent he went,
and stood against the Maide,
And in side glances
faintly he convaide
His crafty eyes about her;
with dumbe showes

I saw you, Love, from the sheepfield that is white

" I saw you, Love, from the sheepfield that is white
With mushrooms and you like an apple bough
Blossoming by the stonewall in the bright
Early sunshine."
" It is misting now."

" The rainy seawind's gone. It will be fine.
Look! there's not any cloud but on the brow
Of Beann Gulbain. They'll climb there to-day,
And search the ancient forest of black pine
Where the night is mildewed, for the dead
Body — "
" O you are wet!"
— " The stepping-stones
In the river were slippery — They say

O! Love! how cold, and slow to take my part!

O! Love! how cold, and slow to take my part!
Thou idle Wanderer, about my Heart;
Why thy old faithfull Souldier wilt thou see
Opprest in thine own Tents? They Murder me:
Thy flames consume, thy Arrows pierce thy Friends,
Rather on Foes pursue more Noble ends.
Achilles Sword wou'd generously bestow
A cure as certaine, as it gave the blow.
Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o're
When the Prey's caught, hope still leads on before.
Wee thy owne Slaves feele thy Tyrannick blows,
While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy Foes.