Oft have I heard my lief Corydon report on a love-day,
When bonny maids do meet with the swains in the valley by Tempe,
How bright eyed his Phyllis was, how lovely they glanced,
When fro th'arches ebon black, flew looks as a lightning,
That set afire with piercing flames even hearts adamantine:
Face rose hued, cherry red, with a silver taint like a lily.
Venus' pride might abate, might abash with a blush to behold her.
Phoebus' wires compar'd to her hairs unworthy the praising.
Juno's state, and Pallas' wit disgrac'd with the Graces,

Love is the key of life and death,
Of hidden heavenly mystery:
Of all Christ is, of all He saith,
Love is the key.

As three times to His Saint He saith,
He saith to me, He saith to thee,
Breathing His Grace-conferring Breath:
“Lovest thou Me?”

Ah, Lord, I have such feeble faith,
Such feeble hope to comfort me:
But love it is, is strong as death,
And I love Thee.

Love is alone the worthy law of love:
All other laws have presupposed a taint:
Love is the law from kindled saint to saint,
From lamb to lamb, from dove to answering dove.
Love is the motive of all things that move
Harmonious by free will without constraint:
Love learns and teaches: love shall man acquaint
With all he lacks, which all his lack is love.
Because Love is the fountain, I discern
The stream as love: for what but love should flow
From fountain Love? not bitter from the sweet!
I ignorant, have I laid claim to know?

How love whom we see not, and cannot see
With mortal sight, the Invisible, Unknown?
To highest angel still a mystery,
Who nearest stands before his awful throne.
Yet by the worlds we see is God revealed,
On earth below and in the starry sky;
The Invisible Spirit, else from man concealed,
Reveals his goodness, power, to every eye.
And by his son, who did his image bear,
The image of his mercy and his grace,
He doth his love, a Father's love declare,
That we, though sinful, yet might see his face.
Yea, our own hearts do tell us of his love,

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure—
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Dear father and dear mother: Let me crave
Your loving kindness there beyond the grave
For my Erotion, the pretty maid
Who bears these lines. Don't let her be afraid!
She's such a little lassie--only six--
To toddle down that pathway to the Styx
All by herself! Black shadows haunt those steeps
And Cerberus the Dread who never sleeps,
May she be comforted, and may she play
About you merry as the livelong day,
And in her childish prattle often tell
Of that old master whom she loved so well.
Oh earth, bear lightly on her! 'Tis her due;

It was the very noon of night: the stars above the fold,
More sure than clock or chiming bell, the hour of mid-night told:
When from the heav'ns there came a voice, and forms were seen to shine
Still bright'ning as the music rose with light and love divine.
With love divine, the song began; there shone a light serene:
O, who hath heard what I have heard, or seen what I have seen?

O ne'er could nightingale at dawn salute the rising day
With sweetness like that bird of song in his immortal lay:
O ne'er were woodnotes heard at eve by banks with poplar shade

My heart is sad and wae, mither,
To leave my native land—
Its bonnie glens—its hills sae blue—
Its memory hallow'd strand—
The friends I've lo'ed sae lang and weel—
The hearts that feel for me:
But, mither, mair than a' I grieve
At leavin' thee.

The hand that saft my bed has made
When I was sick and sair,
Will carefully my pillow lay
And haud my head nae mair.
The een that sleeplessly could watch
When I was in my pain,
Will ne'er for me, from night to dawn,
E'er wake again.

There's kindness in the warld mither,

When early shades of evening's close
The air with solemn darkness fill,
Before the moonlight softly throws
Its fairy mantle o'er the hill,
A sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.

The Nightingale unto the rose
Its tale of love may fondly trill;
No love-tale this—'tis grief that flows
With pain that never can be still.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.

Repeated oft, it never grows
Familiar, but is sadder still,
As though a spirit sought repose

I HAVE lost her, my loved one—
My heart is nigh broken.
As a mother her baby
So loved I my darling;
So would I have given
My loved one, my loved one, my heart!

I sit by the window
And think “Would she wed me!”
If she knew all my passion
As a mother her baby,
So would she have loved me,
And given her heart.

Outside of her garden
I wait for her coming
Though cometh she never—
Alas, now I know it,
She careth not for me
And mocketh at love!