I thought of art, love.
We all must fare
The same kind of muse
As the traveling glare.

The list of eye cannot withhold
The joy of explanation bold
As foreign lands I'll
Never see.

I'll move for comfort;
I'll think a sleep—
And wake the marble perfume
From which my soul stirs inner deep.

Love , since it is thy will that I return
'Neath her usurped control
Who is thou know'st how beautiful and proud;
Enlighten thou her heart, so bidding burn
Thy flame within her soul
That she rejoice not when my cry is loud.
Be thou but once endowed
With sense of the new peace, and of this fire,
And of the scorn wherewith I am despised,
And wherefore death is my most fierce desire;
And then thou'lt be apprised
Of all. So if thou slay me afterward,
Anguish unburthened shall make death less hard.

O Lord, thou knowest very certainly

MOTHER of Mildness! rosey-featur'd May !
In every varied bloom, voluptuous, drest,
I feel, I feel thy vivifying my
Inform, afresh, my animated breast!

My spirit, lighter than the woodlark's wing,
Ascending to salute the dewey dawn,
Pursues thy countless beauties, as they spring
O'er blossom'd bow'r, gay bank, or shaven lawn.

Flush'd with ethereal fervour, all around
Luxuriant landscapes fill the raptur'd sight,
Imagination's wildest wish is crown'd,
And Fancy's self is satiate of delight:

Ev'n the cool streams with blushing radiance glow,

Unto no body my woman saith she had rather a wife bee
then to my self, not though Jove grew a suter of hers.
These be her woordes, but a womans wordes to a love that is eger
in wyndes or waters stremes do require to be writt.

All my past Life is mine no more,
The flying Hours are gone:
Like transitory Dreams giv'n o'er,
Whose Images are kept in store
By Memory alone.

The Time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present Moment's all my Lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

The talk not of Inconstancy,
False Hearts, and broken Vows;
If I, by Miracle, can be
This live-long Minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heav'n allows.

Like lance and shield
set to fend off
arrows shot
from a spindle-wood bow—
that is how ready
my heart is
to pursue
the way of love.

When those we love are present to the sight,
When those we love hear fond affection's words,
The heart is cheerful, as in morning light
The merry song of early-wakened birds:
And oh! the atmosphere of home—how bright
It floats around us, when we sit together
Under a bower of vines in Summer weather,
Or round the hearth-stone in a Winter's night!
This is a picture, not by Fancy drawn—
The eve of life contrasted with its dawn—
A gray-haired man—a girl with sunny eyes;
He seems to speak, and laughing, she replies—

Neither tip
nor base
of the bow
of spindlewood
does my body know—
as on love's
paths still untried
my heart is

1. Our kind Creator formed our voice, To
2. Music, with all its heavenly charms, In-
speak his praise in grateful joys; His saints on earth
vites us to our Saviour's arms; Where millions par
and saints above, Concordant sing his boundless love.
doned by his blood, In sweetest praise adore their God.

3. When parents lead in sacred songs,
Children pursue with cheerful tongues;
'Till true harmonic chords excite
The whole to joy's sublime delight.

4. For heaven itself consists in praise,
Expressed the most delightful ways;

I have a heritage of joy
That yet I must not see:
The Father's hand that makes it mine
Is keeping it for me.

I have a certainty of love
That sets my heart at rest;
A calm assurance for to-day
That to be thus is best.

And a new song is in my mouth,
To long loved music set,—
Glory to thee for all the grace
I have not tasted yet!

Glory to thee for strength withheld,
For want and weakness known,—
The fear that sends me to thy breast
For what is most mine own.

My heart is resting, O my God!
My heart is in thy care: