Methought I saw the lovers Time has known—
Not Helen with the earth-flame in her eyes,
Neither Francesca with her stifled moan,
Nor any like to these, but otherwise.

Quiet, unluted lovers all obscure,
Sweet as with garden fragrance and still dew,
Whose passions were both prosperous and pure,
Whose lives were all their loveliest dreams made true.

They crouched not low bewailing mournful chance,
But seemed strong souls beneath the day's white star,
Revealed a moment in my breathless trance,
Erect and fair as the immortals are.

Far more priceless than the diamonds rare from Golconda's rich mine;
Far more precious than the laurel wreaths that victor's brows entwine,
Is the garland that fond memory weaves, and twines about the heart—
For care nor time, nor war nor crime, can make its tints depart.

A mother's love! most sacred boon to mortals ever given;
'Tis not of earth; a mother's love was surely born in heaven!
See with what gentle, tender care her darling child she shields
From harms of life, from every strife this sphere terrestrial yields!

Coy , sweet maid, I love so well,
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee—love thee true—
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun—
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!

Ah! my heart love's passions swell
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace—
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!

Now I smite my lyre to swell
For Estelle;

I laid my inventory at the hand
Of Death, who in his gloomy arbour sate;
And while he conned it, sweet and desolate
I heard Love singing in that quiet land.
He read the record even to the end—
The heedless, livelong injuries of Fate,
The burden of foe, the burden of love and hate;
The wounds of foe, the bitter wounds of friend:

All, all, he read, ay, even the indifference,
The vain talk, vainer silence, hope and dream.
He questioned me: “What seek'st thou then instead?”
I bowed my face in the pale evening gleam.

Loose hands and part: I am not she you sought,
——The fair one whom in all our dreams you see,
——But something more of earth and less than she,
That crowded her an instant from your thought.
Blameless we face the fate this hour has brought.
——Unwitting I took hers; I set you free
——From all that you unwitting gave to me;
Seek her and find her; I do grudge her naught.
Love, after daylight, dark; so there is left
——This season stripped of you; but yet I know,
Remembering the old, I cannot make
These new days bitter or myself bereft.

I HOLD him, verily, of mean emprise,
Whose rashness tempts a strength too great to bear;
As I have done, alas! who turned mine eyes
Upon those perilous eyes of the most fair.
Unto her eyes I bow'd;
No need her other beauties in that hour
Should aid them, cold and proud:
As when the vassals of a mighty lord,
What time he needs his power,
Are all girt round him to make strong his sword.

With such exceeding force the stroke was dealt
That by mine eyes its path might not be stay'd;
But deep into the heart it pierced, which felt

I love the church that Jesus bought,
And know that it is right;
I go there on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

I love to sing the songs of God,
Such worship must be right,
This I do on Sunday morn,
But not on Sunday night.

God bless the preacher too,
And give him power and might,
But put the sinner in his place,
I won't be there Sunday night.

I love to hear the Gospel too,
It gives me pure delight;
I hear it on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

I know I need more strength
To keep me in the fight;

Not to thee, Bedford, mournful is the tale
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale
Of years thou journeyest; may the future road
Be pleasant as the past; and on my friend
Friendship and Love, best blessings, still attend,
Till full of days he reach the calm abode
Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
Of virtue: with such reverence we behold
The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old
That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage,
Now like a monument of strength decay'd,

Nothing comes
from him,
not so much as a note
asking,
“Do you remember
the pledge of love
we made?”—
so distant has he become.

Now I no longer wait my love to tell,
As 't were a weakness love should not commit;
E'en did avowal my fond hope dispel,
My passion would of weakness me acquit.
Enamoured thus and holden by its spell,
Evasive words disloyal were, unfit
To emphasize the exquisite happiness
My boldest accents falteringly express;
Here, take my hand, and, life-long wedded, lead
Me by thy side; and, with my hand, my heart
Given thee long since in thought, given now in deed;
My life, my love, shall play no faithless part.
Blest be that hour, when, meeting face to face,