I

Dear Love, you ask if I be true,
If other women move
The heart that only beats for you
With pulses all of love

Out in the chilly dew one morn
I plucked a wild sweet rose,
A little silver bud new-born
And longing to unclose.

I took it, loving new-born things,
I knew my heart was warm,
" O little silver rose, come in

Dear Heart, this is my book of boyish song,
The changing story of the wandering quest
That found at last its ending in thy breast —
The love it sought and sang astray so long
With wild young heart and happy eager tongue
Much meant it all to me to seek and sing,
Ah, Love, but how much more to-day to bring
This " rhyme that first of all he made when young."

Take it and love it, 'tis the prophecy
For whose poor silver thou hast given me gold;
Yea! those old faces for an hour seemed fair
Only because some hints of Thee they were:

O MIGHTY Queen, our Lady of the fire,
The light, the music, and the honey, all
Blent in one Power, one passionate Desire
Man calleth Love — " Sweet love," the blessed call — :
I come a sad-eyed suppliant to thy knee,
If thou hast pity, pity grant to me;
If thou hast bounty, here a heart I bring
For all that bounty 'thirst and hungering
O Lady, save thy grace, there is no way
For me, I know, but lonely sorrowing —

If in my soul, dear,
An omen should dwell,
Bidding me pause, ere
I love thee too well;
If the whole circle
Of noble and wise,
With stern forebodings,
Between us should rise; —

I will tell them , dear,
That Love reigns — a King,
Where storms cannot reach him,
And words cannot sting;
He counts it dishonor
His faith to recall;
He trusts; — and forever

I

A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood:
A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:
One large, white star above the solitude,
Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain,
Wild-roses wistful in a web of rain.

II

No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead;
No woodsman compass of the skies and rocks, —
Tattooed of stars and lichens, — doth love need
To guide him where, among the hollyhocks,

To my louing and iuditious friend Mr Francis Wye.

Wye was the nimphe neere which I first did breath.
And Wye's the man with whome I loue to liue;
The first, is apt to nourish life and death,
The last, but comforts sweete, to life doth giue:
Then Wye I pree thee runne with righter course
To mee then Wye doth wandring from her sourse.

To my truly louing and beloued friend Mr William Wall.

Well , be so still; be (as thou art) a Wall
For thy friends saueguard and thine owne withall;
Be thou thyselfe and thou thyselfe wilt bee
Desirde of all that rightly value thee:
For if my loue my iudgement blinde not, then
Thou art more worth then many wealthy men.

T HERE was a time, yea, yea, a time there was,

(But that that was, the Fryer neuer lou'd)
When he was held a beast that was an asse,
But now an asse is often best approu'd:

THE tender, delicate Flowers,
I saw them fanned by a warm western wind
Fed by soft summer showers,
Shielded by care, and yet, (O Fate unkind!)
Fade in a few short hours.

The gentle and the gay,
Rich in a glorious Future of bright deeds,
Rejoicing in the day,
Are met by Death, who sternly, sadly leads
Them far away.

And Hopes, perfumed and bright,
So lately shining, wet with dew and tears,
Trembling in morning light;
I saw them change to dark and anxious fears
Before the night!

I wept that all must die:

To my most louing and intirely beloued Pupill, Mr Arthur De la-vale, attending the right honourable and most happy Earle of Dunbarre.

Thy name is of the Vale: thy nature, not:
For it is kinde and truly generous:
As are thy worthy brothers (well I wou)
Then is thy nature highly vertuous:
Yet being lowly too as is the Dale,
Thy name thy nature fits, deere De la-Vale.

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
Alone in the silence bright;
While heav'n enswathes in a glittering veil
An unreal world of white.

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
In the deathless afterglow
Of ideal love that was pure and white,
Ah! Willie, you know, you know!

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
While out in the quiet street,
A passionate wail of melody
Flows out from a cornet sweet.

The plaint in the air is sad, Willie,
Ah! Sadder could never be,
" Love not, love not " — Ah God! Willie,