If thy form be matchless fair
 'Tis a form that still eludes me,
If thy lips make sweet the air
 They are lips that still exclude me;
Say those eyes are stars of night
 They are stars that oft mislead me;
Say those curls are beams of light
 They from light to darkness speed me.

Say thou'rt proud—thou shouldst be told
 Pride, like ice-drops in the morn, love,
Glittering on some flow'ret cold,
 Ruin what they would adorn, love!
Say thou'rt dear—yet should'st thou know
 Love must on affection feed, love,—

'T IS a love-thought hidden
In a maiden's breast,
Which, though sweetly chidden,
Will not let her rest.
She, in golden vision
Of her love, hath wreath'd
Feelings more Elysian
Than e'er tongue hath breath'd.

Every sorrow losing
In the passion wrought,
There she sitteth musing
O'er her one sweet thought.
Still her fate unseeing,
Love doth all impart;
Beauty fills her being,
Melody her heart.


Thus one name had bound her
In her maiden day;
Flowers bloom'd bright around her—

When first my eyes beheld thee smile
My heart fled to thee in that gaze,
But when I heard thee speak awhile
I ceased thy lovely form to praise!
For higher gifts thy being bore
Than those a beauteous cheek endow;
And if I lost my heart before,
Oh, love, my soul flew with it now! —

And heart and soul shall still be thine,
Come what may come of ills the worst;
As faithful to thy life's decline,
As when they wooed and loved thee first!
As birds oft sing their sweetest song
When every leaf hath left the tree;

Is it worth the learning,
This love they praise?
Pale lovers yearning
For happy days,
For happy days and happier nights,
For waking dreams of dear delights?
Is it worth the learning?

My heart is burning,
It scorches me;
Is it worth the learning?
What this may be?
Why do I walk alone all day?
" She is in love, " the maidens say.
Is love worth learning?

Was it worth the learning?
He kissed my hand.
Is love worth learning?
I understand,
Though love may come and love may go,

" WHEN the ways with May-flower whiten,
And before the lilac blooms,
When the songs and feathers brighten
In the forest's bridal rooms;
Though your beauty should forsake you,
And your love itself decay,
I will come, my own, to take you,
If I have to fight my way. "

So her heart at peace reposes
Till the winter-time shall go;
But the lilac and the roses,
And the fruit came, and the snow;
And the years came, and age took her;
All her beauty did decay;
For her lover false forsook her;
But her love shall last for aye.

" LOVE , your love — speak low —
Now, give it now to me,
Your pride? Let it go, let it go.
Your wealth? Let it sink in the sea.
Women like you should be poor;
Gold upon beauty is vain:
Love, O lady, be sure
Is loveless without some pain.
Let the triumph of love be seen;
Come poor to me, poor, my queen. "

The lady rose at length,
And looked to earth and sky;
She laughed in her loving strength,
And flung her bracelets by;
She scattered her wealth abroad,
She donned a homespun gown,
And said, as she took the road:

NOT every one who crieth, Lord ,
Or hear, or pray, or preach thy word,
Wilt thou in God-like accents own,
Or hail, as partners of thy throne.

What! if this sect, or that, I join,
Believe my party most divine;
Vain will my warmest notions prove,
If absent from my heart, thy love.

What! if with Calvin I agree,
Or to Arminian doctrines flee,
I still remain a child of sin,
If love does not preside within.

Let bigots for the shell contend,
In idle controversies spend
Their precious time, whom zealous fire

Rue and roses, is it so,
Where roses blossom, must rue grow,
And shade the roses, as they blow?

The roses spread their lovely sheen
Upon the swelling meadow's green,
And light the fields, with joy serene.

But in their midst there stands the rue,
With saddened mien and ashen hue,
And reaches up into the blue.

Rue and roses, must it be,
May not the roses blossom free,
And joy in sunshine perfectly?

Ah, no, for joy is one with pain —
They both must follow in love's train,
And where one comes, they both remain.

Since short the busy scene of life will prove,
Let us, my Hoyland, learn to live and love;
To love with passions pure as morning light,
Whose saffron beams, unsullied by the night,
With rosy mantles do the heavens streak,
Faint imitators of my Hoyland's cheek.
The joys of nature in her ruin'd state
Have little pleasure, though the pains are great:
Virtue and Love when sacred bands unite,
'Tis then that nature leads to true delight.
Oft as I wander through the myrtle grove,
Bearing the beauteous burden of my love,

Play it slowly, sing it lowly,
Old, familiar tune!
Once it ran in dance and dimple,
Like a brook in June;
Now it sobs along the measures
With a sound of tears;
Dear old voices echo through it,
Vanished with the years.

Ripple, ripple, goes the love-song,
Till in slowing time
Early sweetness grows completeness,
Floods its every rhyme.
Who together learn the music
Life and death unfold,
Know that love is but beginning
Until love is old.

Play it slowly, — it is holy
As an evening hymn;