OH! never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seemed my flame to qualify. As easy might I from myself depart,

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.

That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels, I return again-
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged;
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

SHAKESPEARE.

O HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella bear;
I saw myself with many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did
shine;

The boat for joy could not to dance forbear;
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine
Ravished, staid not till in her golden hair
They did themselves, oh sweetest prison!
twine;

And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay

Have made, but forced by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She so dishevelled, blushed:-from window I, With sight thereof, cried out, oh fair disgrace! Let honor's self to thee grant highest place.

How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be, that even in heavenly place

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace;
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me--
Is constant love deemed there but want of
wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth
possess?

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

241

As idle sounds, of few or none are sought; That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. I know frail beauty 's like the purple flower To which one morn oft birth and death af fords,

That love a jarring is of mind's accords, Where sense and will bring under reason's power:

Know what I list, this all cannot me move, But that, alas! I both must write and love. WILLIAM DRUMMOND,

SONNET.

If it be true that any beauteous thing
Raises the pure and just desire of man
From earth to God, the eternal fount of all,
Such I believe my love; for as in her
So fair, in whom I all besides forget,
I view the gentle work of her creator,
I have no care for any other thing,
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous,
Since the effect is not of my own power,
If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth,
Enamored through the eyes,

Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth,
And through them riseth to the Primal Love,
As to its end, and honors in admiring;
For who adores the Maker needs must love
His work.

MICHAEL ANGELO. (Italian.)

Translation of J. E. TAYLOR.

SONNET.

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays; And what by mortals in this world is brought, In time's great periods shall return to nought; That fairest states have fatal nights and days. I know that all the muses' heavenly lays, With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,

TO VITTORIA COLONNA.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep

pace,

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none find grace
In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God

made

The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that Eternal Peace is paid,

| Who such divinity to thee imparts

hearts.

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour: But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power

Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,

That breathes on earth the air of paradise. MICHAEL ANGELO. (Italian.) Translation of WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

Ir thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile, her look, her

way

Of speaking gently, -for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day.”
For these things in themselves, beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee, and love so
wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,

A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

I NEVER gave a lock of hair away
To a man dearest, except this to thee,
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full brown length, and say,
"Take it!" My day of youth went yesterday;
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee,
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more. It only may

aside

prove;

Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love.

Yet love me-wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,

And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.

FIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white,

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "O list!"

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,

Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love's

own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud, and said, "My love, my
own!"

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and height

My soul can reach, when feeling, out of sight,
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's

faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the

breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose,

I shal. but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT Browning.

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.
In the merrie moneth of Maye,
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troupe of damsells playing,
Forth I yode forsooth a-maying;

Where anon by a wood side,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied all alone

Phillida and Corydon.

Much adoe there was, God wot; He wold love, and she wold not. She sayd never inan was trewe; He sayes none was false to you.

He sayde hee had lovde her longe;
She sayes love should have no wronge
Corydon wold kisse her then;
She sayes maids must kisse no men,

Tyll they doe for good and all. When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe, Never loved a truer youthe.

243

Then with many a prettie othe,
Yea, and naye, and faithe and trothe-
Such as seelie shepperdes use
When they will not love abuse-

Love, that had bene long deluded, Was with kisses sweete concluded; And Phillida with garlands gaye Was made the ladye of the Maye.

NICHOLAS BEETOR

LOVE IS A SICKNESS.

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing;

A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh-ho!