love poetry

Ah, Chloris, since it may not be,
That thou of love wilt hear;
If from the lover thou maun flee,
Yet let the friend be dear.

Altho' I love my Chloris, mair
Than ever tongue could tell;
My passion I will ne'er declare —
I'll say, I wish thee well.

Tho' a' my daily care thou art,
And a' my nightly dream,
I'll hide the struggle in my heart,
And say it is esteem.

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar:
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,
By bonie Irwine-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied.

How aften didst thou pledge and vow,
Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,

My love she's but a lassie yet,
My love she's but a lassie yet;
We'll let her stand a year or twa,
She'll no be half sae saucy yet. —

I rue the day I sought her O,
I rue the day I sought her O,
Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd,
But he may say he's bought her O. —

Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet,
Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet:
Gae seek for Pleasure whare ye will,
But here I never misst it yet. —

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't,
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't:

Go on, sweet bird, and soothe my care,
Thy tuneful notes will hush Despair;
Thy plaintive warblings void of art
Thrill sweetly thro' my aching heart.
Now chuse thy mate, and fondly love,
And all the charming transport prove;
While I a lovelorn exile live,
Nor transport or receive or give.

For thee is laughing Nature gay;
For thee she pours the vernal day:
For me in vain is Nature drest,
While joy's a stranger to my breast!

These sweet emotions all enjoy;
Let love and song thy hours employ!

" GAY go up and gay go down
To ring the Bells of London Town. "
When London Town's asleep in bed
You'll hear the Bells ring overhead.
In excelsis gloria!
Ringing for Victoria,
Ringing for their mighty mistress — ten years dead!

T HE B ELLS :

Here is more gain than Gloriana guessed —
Than Gloriana guessed or Indies bring —

In early days the woman was my queen;
The fair sweet maiden, crowned with first love's flowers.
With her I wandered through the in woven bowers
Of first love, — marked the young moon's silver sheen
Upon the deep, or heard the echoing shore
Ring to the white waves, answering their roar:
With her I lingered through the summer hours
Or smote the river tides with laughing oar.

I sought no further than the simple boon
Of simple maiden love: sufficient bliss
Had been the bounty of her red-lipped kiss;

I.

The year is flying, dying, —
Soon its flowers will flee;
Its tender soft red roses,
Its leafy verdant closes, —
Soon autumn will be crying,
" What is left for me? "

II.

The old loves are flying, dying, —
With all their soft-voiced glee;
Their ripples of sweet laughter

The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love,
Glories of evening, as ye there are seen
With but a span of sky between —
Speak one of you, my doubts remove,
Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen?

A sad and lovely face, with upturned eyes,
Tearless, yet full of grief. — How heavenly fair
How saintlike is the look those features wear!
Such sorrow is more lovely in its guise
Than joy itself — for underneath it lies
A calmness that betokens strength to bear
Earth's petty grievances — its toil and care: —
A spirit that can look through clouded skies,
And see the blue beyond. — Type of that grace
That lit Her holy features, from whose womb
Issued the blest Redeemer of our race —
How little dost thou speak of earthly gloom!

You call it, " Love lies bleeding," — so you may,
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,
As we have seen it here from day to day,
From month to month, life passing not away:
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power),
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!
('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led,
Though by a slender thread,)
So drooped Adonis, bathed in sanguine dew