Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 't is nature's law, in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and with'ring age submit,
With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long contended honors of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Tho' yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise;

You say this world's dire need is love,
But O, in this be not misled;
Your hope must fiercely shine above
An epicure's indulgent bed.

Better the fiercest hatred born
Than that amœban death in life
That waits, with liquid eyes forlorn,
A happiness exempt from strife:

That octopus whose filthy arms
Would clasp the world to feed its ease:
That siren whose lascivious charms
Are bent her sickly lust to please.

Love stands upon the mountain height
And bids you strain your keenest nerve
To reach the peaks of her delight,

You ask, my soul, that this our mutual love
In fondness, as duration, might excel:
Great gods direct that she but constant prove,
And that she speaks but true, who speaks so well!
Then, gently bound in friendship's holy tie,
We'll both together live, together die!

Think'st thou, I'd rail at her I prize,
The nymph that's dearer than these eyes?
I ne'er had any cause, I vow!
Or, if I had, my ardent love
Too strong an obstacle would prove——
But Tappo's sland'rous; so art thou!

Tho' I hate, yet I love!—you'll perhaps ask me, how?
I can't tell; but I'm vext, and I feel that I do.

No nymph, amid the much-lov'd few,
Is lov'd, as thou art lov'd by me:
No love was e'er so fond, so true,
As my fond love, sweet maid, for thee!

Yes, e'en thy faults, bewitching fair!
With such delights my soul possess;
That whether faithless, or sincere,
I cannot love thee more, nor less!

My nymph averr'd, that mine alone
She'd be, and Jove himself despise;
Tho' courted to partake his throne,
And reign the empress of the skies!

Thus did the flatt'rer fondly swear;
But what, alas, are woman's vows?
Fit to be written but on air,
Or on the stream that swiftly flows!

All that was mine—I have loved it, and loved it both true and well.
Quick to its call I uprose, as the heart to the sacring-bell.
Never so long ago, nor aught that I loved as a child,
And lost, but I love it still and would seek it unreconciled.
Never so far past by, that broken its image appears,
Blent with dissolving visions or dim in the rush of the years!
Never so cast away, flung out on the world's rough wake,
But only the more would I love it—at need would go down for its sake.

All that was mine—I have loved it. Had greater than this been mine,

Good my lord,
You have begot me, bred me, loved me. I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honor you.
Why have my sisters husbands if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.
Sure I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all. I, i

I was the Widow McFarlane,
Weaver of carpets for all the village.
And I pity you still at the loom of life,
You who are singing to the shuttle
And lovingly watching the work of your hands,
If you reach the day of hate, of terrible truth.
For the cloth of life is woven, you know,
To a pattern hidden under the loom—
A pattern you never see!
And you weave high-hearted, singing, singing,
You guard the threads of love and friendship
For noble figures in gold and purple.
And long after other eyes can see
You have woven a moon-white strip of cloth,