SONNET. PERHAPS the lady of my love is now Sheds a most tremulous lustre : silent night Onward and onward through those depths of blue BARRY CORNWALL. THE DIFFIDENE OF LOVE WHY should I blush to own I love ? 'Tis love that rules the realms above. Why should I blush to say to all That virtue holds my heart in thrall? Why should I seek the thickest shade, Is it a weakness thus to dwell HENRY KIRK WHITE. Ay, it is Love's own tracing! every word Of eloquence is written by his pen! 'Tis the heart's language-all thine ear hath heard (Like music from his tongue) is told again! Each fondly-murmured sigh, each half-breathed vow From his soul's depths are drawn, unsealed, acknowledged now i With all a over's tenderness, he lays His heart, his hopes, his fortunes, at thy feet; That ye have passed so oft in "converse sweet," More eloquent than words-'tis thus it speaks: Thou fair and lovely creature! Who may tell Thy young untutored heart? or who control That like spring flowers, once crushed, can never blo again? Ah! through life's chequered range, but one such hour In after years a thousand passions take Possession of the soul; with cunning art They win its fond idolatry, and make Themselves a shrine to rest in! To the heart Love comes but once, like blossom. to the rose, The deep soul-searching flame our first affection knows. Ay, ye may smile, ye stoics! but 'tis true, And not the fiction of a poet's brain; The heart's first bloom of love, like morning dew, Once brushed, ne'er sparkles on the flower again, Till the long day is closed in evening skies, And on the drooping plant another morn arise ! MRS. C. B. WILSON UNREQUITED LOVE. SISTER! Since I met thee last, Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught Tell me not the tale, my flower! LOVE SYMPATHIES. HEMANS. OH! for some fairy talisman to conjure Up to these longing eyes the form they pine for! And aught in sound most sweet, to sight most fair, THE TRYSTING HOUR. THE night-wind's Eolian breezes, The stars hang their lamps in the sky, 'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love, When each bloom has a tear in its eye. So stilly the evening is closing Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall, Eolian whispers reposing, Breathe softly, I hear my love call; Yes! the light fairy step of my true love, The night-breeze is wafting to me; Over heath-bell and violet blue, love, Perfuming the shadowy lea. Jue, THOMAS LYLE. It is a blessing that is felt But by united minds that flow, Of jarring passion pours its light, It is so true, so fixed, so strong, It parts not with the parting breath; In the soul's flight 't is borne along, And hold's the heart's strings e'en in death 'Tis never quenched by sorrow's tide ;- And only shines unshaken there. On! there are looks and tones that dart As if the very lips and eyes, So beamed on me thy speech and tone Then come with me, if thou hast known Then, fare thee well!-I'd rather make LOVE. THERE is a love so fond, No art the magic tie can sever; 'T is ever beauteous, ever new; Its chain once linked is linked for ever. There is a love, but passion's beam,— Too fond, too warm, too bright to last,— The phrensy of a fevered dream, That burns a moment, then is past. 'Tis like the lightning's lurid glare, That streams its blaze of fatal light, Of hearts whose currents flow in one. T. MOORE LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE. YOUNG Love, thou art belied: they speak of thee, They blame thee for the faults that thou hast not. Or worse than even this, how can they think How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear Where none must wander from the beaten road,— These, Love, are haunts for thee: where canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furled-but in solitude! LANDON. Then, with the glory from the rose, With the sparkle from the stream, With all the Elysian hues Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, It is the soft and silent hour When mighty Love hath mightiest power GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. "Leave me not!" was still THE burden of their music; and I knew Its own still world amid the o'erpeopled world, * They crown me with the glistening crown I hear the pealing music of renown- Mine were a lone dark lot, Bereft of thee! They tell me that my soul can throw A glory o'er the earth; From thee, from thee is caught that golden glow, It gives to flower and skies A bright new birth! Thence gleams the path of morning Over the kindling hills a sunny zone! Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning Thence every wood-recess Each bower to ring-doves and dim violets known. I see all beauty by the ray That streameth from thy smile: Oh! bear it, bear it not away! Can that sweet light beguile? Too pure, too spirit-like it seems, To linger long by earthly streams; Yet must I perish if the gift depart Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart! SLIGHTED LOVE. MAY slighted woman turn, AND as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave, steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estage her once, it boots not how, By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not! N. P. WILLIS THE MINSTREL'S LOVE. HE loved, as minstrel-elf must prove.For song itself is born of love So the young glow and metting shower Perfume and suppliance of an hour;- ISHMAEL FITZADAM WOMAN IS THE LIGHT OF LOVE. O WOMAN! Woman! thou art formed to bless The heart of restless man, to chase his care, And charm existence by thy loveliness: Bright as the sunbeam, as the morning fair. If but thy foot fall on a wilderness, Flowers spring, and shed their roseate blossoms there, Shrouding the thorns that on thy pathway rise, And scattering o'er it hues of Paradise. Thy voice of love is music to the ear, Soothing and soft, and gentle as the stream That strays 'mid summer flowers; thy glittering tear Of light ineffable, so sweet, so dear, It wakes the heart from sorrow's darkest dream, No! no! when woman smiles we feel a charm Of pure affection, give to transport birth; All earthly praise-Thou art the Light of Love. SONG OF THE FORSAKEN. AND will she love thee as well as I? Will she do for thee what I have done? Will she feel when another pronounces thy name Will she watch when a cloud passes over thy brow. THE HOUR OF LOVE. Ir is the hour when from the boughs Seem sweet in every whispered word; FRAGMENT. I'LL lay me on the wintry lea Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the heaven the clear obscure So softly dark, and darkly pure, When twilight melts beneath the moon away. SONNET. SWEET as the cry of joy, or as the song Of tender birds-like the beloved tone Of one who loves us, loved by us aloneSuch are the honeyed accents of thy tongue; Like Orpheus' lyre, so eloquent, so strong: BYRON. Such sounds the muse herself might not disown, So speaks harmonious, her most favored son, And pours the rapturous tide of verse along. Oh! if fond love should once that voice inspire, And breathe the mingling harmony of sighs, The soul of such rare music ne'er could tire; 1: speaks the ecstacy of Paradise. Sure then, thy sweetness might a mortal move, THE LOVE BORN OF SORROW. We have not loved as those who plight While leaves are green, and skies are bright, But we have loved as those who tread With clouds o'ercast-and cause to dread That thorny path, those cloudy skies, Love born in hours of joy and mirth, It looks beyond the clouds of time, By faith and hope immortal! PERHAPS I LOVE. PERHAPS I love B. BARTON. To visit my heart's treasure by that light To think of thee, thou dear one! thus with flowers And sleep amid the cauld and weet; And ere another's bride I be Oh! bring to me my winding sheet! What can a helpless lassie do, When ilka friend would prove ner foe, Would gar her break her dearest vow, And wed with ane she canna loe? ROBERT TANNAHILL WHERE is the heart that hath not bowed, And is there one among them free? All passion's fiery depths conealing, Which has in its minutest part, More than another's depth of feeling? LANDON. GOD gives us Love. Something to love, He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off and love is left alone! TENNYSON. L'ABSENCE ET LE RETOUR. Il faut l'avoir connu l'affreux malheur de vivre loin de ce qu'on aime, pour pouvoir se faire une idée des ravisse mens qu'éprouve notre ame, lorsqu'on lui rend le bien qu'elle avoit perdu. Il faut avoir repandu les larmes amères de l'absence pour sentir toute la volupté des douces larmes du retour. Je te plains, malheureux amant, qu'un sort cruel a forcé de quitter l'objet de tes vœux. Chaque pas que tu fais ajoute à tes maux; chaque heure te rap pelle un plaisir perdu: tu calcules avec désespoir tous les Instans qui s'écouleront avant la fin de ton exil; tu crois les abréger en les recomptant. Tu portes sans cesse les yeux sur le chemin qui conduit aux lieux où tu laissas ton cœur; tu le mesure avec effroi; et le voyageur que ta decouvres sur cette route te semble jouir d'un destin plus ber reux que celui des rois. Je te plains: mais que tu seras digne d'envie le jour où tu revoleras vers elle! le jour où, reconnaissant de loin sa maison, tu la verras attendre l'heureux instant qui doit payer tant de chagrins! Ah! cet instant - s'il se prolongeoit, tu ne pourrois le supporter; ton ame, qui trouva de la force contre les maux, serait ac cablée de tant de bonheur. |