MEET ME AT SUNSET.

MEET me at sunset, the hour we love best,

Ere day's last crimson blushes have died in the west,
When the shadowless ether is blue as thine eye,
And the breeze is as balmy and soft as thy sigh;
When giant-like forms lengthen fast o'er the ground
From the motionless mill and the linden trees round;
When the stillness below, the mild radiance above,
Softly sink on the heart and attune it to love.

Meet me at sunset-oh! meet me once more,

Neath the wide-spreading thorn where you met me of yore,
When our hearts were as calm as the broad summer sea
That lay gleaming before us, bright, boundless, and free;
And with hand clasped in hand, we sat trance-bound, and
deemed

That life would be ever the thing it then seemed.
The tree we then planted, green record! lives on,
But the hopes that grew with it are faded and gone.
Meet me at sunset, beloved! as of old,-

When the boughs of the chestnut are waving in gold;
When the pure starry clematis bends with its bloom,
And the jasmine exhales a more witching perfume.
That sweet hour shall atone for the anguish of years,
And though fortune still frown, bid us smile through our
tears;

Through the storms of the future shall sooth and sustain;
Then meet me at sunset-oh! meet me again!

A. A. WATTS.

LOVE'S MINSTREL LUTE.

LOVE's minstrel lute was once so dear
To every youthful breast,

Each maiden thronged its notes to hear,
Each swain its spells confessed!
Love rambled oft in hours of joy,
Through Pleasure's flowery way,
A gay light-hearte! minstrel boy
Chanting his merry lay!

Love's minstrel lute has lost its tune,
Its sweetest lay is sung!

And passion's fervid breath hath flown,
That sighed those chords among!

A blighted flower, a broken toy,
Love's lute must now remain,
No pulse of hope, no thrill of joy,
Shall rouse its fire again!

For Reason came amid the throng
To hear the god one day

Like a chill blight the flowers among
And checked his merry lay!
His icy fingers round the boy
Threw Wealth's enslaving chain,
And Love's soft lute, that soul of joy,
Ne'er sang of bliss again!

MRS. C. B. WILSON.

WHAT Spirit e'er so gentle shall be fount
So softly reared in humble privacy!
What form so fragile on wide earth's vast bound,
Shrinking from every blast beneath the sky,
That will not brave severest destiny,
Bear, uncomplaining, want and cruel wrong,
And look on danger with unblenching eye,
If Love hath made that gentle spirit strong?

Love, pure, approved by Heaven, leads that frail form along!
LADY DACRE.

LOVE.

Love in the soul, not bold and confident,
But like Aurora, trembles into being;
And with faint flickering, and uncertain beams,
Gives notice to the awakening world within us
Of the full blazing orb, that soon shall rise,
And kindle all its passions. Then begin
Sorrow and joy,-unutterable joy,

And rapturous sorrow. Then the world is nothing;
Pleasure is nothing; suffering is nothing;
Ambition, riches, praise, power, all are nothing;
Love rules and reigns despotic and alone!
Then, oh the shape of magic loveliness
He conjures up before us. In her form
Is perfect symmetry. Her swan-like gait,
As she glides by us, like a lovely dream,
Seems not of earth. From her bright eye the soul
Looks out, and, like the topmost gem o' the heap,
Shows the mine's wealth within. Upon her face,
As on a lovely landscape, shade and sunlight,
Play as strong feeling sways; now her eye flashes
A beam of rapture; now lets drop a tear;
And now upon her brow, as when the rainbow
Rears its fair arch in heaven, Peace sits and gilds
The sweet drops as they fall. The soul of mind
Dwells in her voice, and her soft spiritual tones
Sink in the heart, soothing its cares away;
As Halcyon's brood upon the troubled wave
And charm it into calmness. When she weeps,
Her tears are like the waters upon which
Love's mother rose to Heaven. E'en her sighs,
Although they speak the troubles of her soul,
Breathe of its sweetness, as the wind that shakes
The cedar's boughs, becomes impregnated
With its celestial odors.

A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.
THERE is a mystic thread of life,
So dearly wreathed with mine alone,
That destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none.
There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight;
By day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice whose tones inspire

Such thrills of rapture through my breast,

I would not hear a seraph choir

Unless that voice could join the rest.

There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek;

But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speak.

There is a lip which mine hath pressed,
And none had ever pressed before;
It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
And mine-mine only-pressed it more

There is a bosom-all my own

Hath pillowed oft this aching head;
A mouth which smiles on me alone,
An eye whose tears with mine are shed.

There are two hearts whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet;
That pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave-or cease to beat.
There are two souls whose equal flow,
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-they part !—ah, nɔ!
They can not part-those souls are one!

LOVE IN ABSENCE.

OH! my dear peerless wife!

NEELI

BYROK,

By the blue sky and all its crowding stars
I love you better-oh! far better than
Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee:
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon,
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
Of thee, my love, to my fond anxious heart!
BARRY CORNWAIL

BEAUTY, WEALTH, AND LOVE.

WEALTH, with golden key, once sought
To win the way to beauty's shrir.;
Many a sparkling gem he brought,

And many a diamond from the mine;
But Love, veiled in slight disguise,
Hovered round near Beauty's bower,
Lest the gems of Eastern skies

Should weigh against his power.

Wealth displayed his dazzling store,
Pearly wreaths and ruby crowns;

Beauty ran the treasures o'er,

And smiles succeeded frowns.

What could Love oppose to this?

He had but his crown of simple flowers,
That were bathed in the honeyed dew of bliss,
Culled fresh from his roseate bowers.

Then Wealth laughed out triumphantly,
As he led young Beauty's steps along,
Who turned on Love a scornful eye,
And a cold ear to his song.

Away they went—and their path was strewn
With many a rare and precious gem,
That springs up at Wealth's command alone;
All-all shone brightly for them!

But Feauty, at last, found out her mistake,
When time had broken the charm;

As the moonbeam shines on the frozen lake,

Wealth may glitter-but can not warm!

Then too late-she remembered Love's rosy bowers,
When the spell that beguiled was o'er;
And she sighed for the fresh unfading flowers
That could blossom for her-no more!

A SOLEMN CONCEIT. DOTH Love live in Beauty's eyes? Why, then, are they so unloving? Patience in her passion proving There his sorrow chiefly lies.

Lives belief in lovers' hearts?

Why, then, are they unbelieving?
Hourly so the spirit grieving
With a thousand jealous smarts.

Is there pleasure in love's passion?
Why then, is it unr'asing,
Heart and spirit both diseasing,
Where the wits are out of fashion?
No. Love sees in Beauty's eyes
He hath only lost his seeing,
Where, in Sorrow's only being
All his comfort wholly dies:
Fain within the heart of love,
Fearful of the thing it hath,
Treading of a trembling path,
Doth but jealousy approve.

In Love's passion, then, what pleasure,
Which is but a lunacy,

Where grief, fear, and jealousy, Plague the senses out of measure? Farewell, then, unkindly fancy,

In thy courses all too cruel: Wo the price of such a jewel As turns reason to a phrensy!

AN ODE.

Now each creature joys the other, Passing happy days and hours;

One bird reports unto another,

N. BRETON

In the fall of silver showers; Whilst the Earth, our common mother, Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven

With bright ray warms Flora's lap,
Making nights and days both even,
Cheering plants with fresher sap;
My field of flowers, quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.
Echo, daughter of the air,

Babbling guest of rocks and hills,
Knows the name of my fierce fair,
And sounds the accents of my ills:
Each thing pities my despair,
Whilst that she her lover kills.
Whilst that she, O cruel maid!
Doth me and my love despise,
My life's flourish is decayed,
That depended on her eyes;
But her will must be obeyed,
And well he ends for love who dies.
SAMUEL DANIEL

J. K. HERVEY.

SONNET.

LADY! Sweet maid, with flowing auburn hair, Lips like twin cherries, eyes of heavenly blue, And blooming cheek, tinctured with Health's own hue, Such as in Spring the apple-blossoms wear; Cheerful as Morn, and innocent as fair! Accept this Garland, for it is thy due: Thou didst direct me oft where hidden grew Love's fairest plants, of scent and beauty rare, And warn me oft against a noxious flower,

Of color bright, and tempting to the eye, But all unfit in Beauty's breast to lie, To wreath her brow, or deck her latticed bower: Uncropped I passed such canker-blossoms by, Wandering with thee through meads in summer hour.

I MUST not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have a time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while
And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither,
And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;
Pity and smiles do best become the fair;

Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one! SAMUEL DANIEL

OF LINGERINGE LOVE.

IN lingeringe ove mislikinge growes,
Wherby our fancies ebbs and flowes;
We love to day, and hate to morne,
And dayly when we list to scorne.
Take heed, therefore,

If she mislike, then love no more:
Quick speed makes waste;
Love is not gotten in such haste.

The suit is colde that soone is done;
The fort is feeble, eas'ly wonne;

The awk that soon comes by her prey,
May take a toy and soar away.

Mark what means this;

Some thinke to hit, and yet they miss: First creepe, then goe;

Me thinke our love is handled soe.

For lacke of bellowes the fire goes out;
Some say the nighest way is about:
Few things are had without some suit;
The tree at first will bear no fruit.

Serve long, hope well,

Loe here is all that I can tell:

Time tries out troth,

And troth is liked wherere it go❜th.

Some thinke all theirs that they do seeke;
Some wantons woo but for a weeke;
Some woo to shew their subtle wits,
Such palfreys play upon their bits.
Fine heads, God knows,

That plucke a nettle for a rose!
They meet their match,

And fare the worse because they snatch.

We silly women can not rest

For men that love to woo in jest ;
Some lay their baite in ev'ry nooke,
And ev'ry fish doth spie their hooke.
Ill ware, good cheape,*

Which makes us looke before we leape;
Craft can cloke much;

God save all simple souls from such!

Though lingeringe love be lost some while,
Yet lingeringe lovers laugh and smile;
Who will not linger for a day,

To banish hope, and hop away?

Love must be plied;

Who thinkes to sayle must wait the tide.

Thus ends his dance:

God send all lingerers happie chance!

MY MISTRESS' FACE.

ANONYMOUS.

AND would you see my mistress' face?
It is a flow'ry garden place,

Where knots of beauty have such grace,
That all is work, and no where space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding never born;
It is a meadow yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heaven's bright reflex,
Weak to dazzle and to vex;
It is the Idea of her sex,
Envy of whom doth world perplex.

It is a face of death that smiles,
Pleasing, though it kills the whiles;
Where Death and Love, in pretty wiles,
Each other mutually beguiles.

It is fair Beauty's freshest youth;
It is the feigned Elysium's truth;

The spring that wintered hearts renew'th,
And this is that my soul pursu'th.

Bargain.

THOMAS CAMPION.

LADIES, fly from Love's smooth tale!
Oaths steeped in tears do oft prevail;
Grief is infectious, and the air
Inflamed with sighs will blast the fair!
Then stop your ears when lovers cry,
Lest yourself weep, when no soft eye
Shall with a sorrowing tear repay
That pity which you cast away.

Young men, fly, when Beauty darts
Amorous glances at your hearts!

The fixed mark gives the shooter aim,
And ladies' looks have power to maim;
Now 'twixt their lips, now in their eyes,
Wrapped in a smile, or kiss, Love lies.
Then fly betimes; for only they
Conquer Love that run away.

THE PRIMROSE.

THOMAS CAREW

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine,

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be:

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

POWER OF LOVE.

BEN JONSON.

LET those complain that feel Love's cruelty,
And in sad legends write their woes :
With roses gently he has corrected me;
My war is without rage or blows;
My mistress' eyes shine fair on my desires,

A hope springs up inflamed with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms and sighs all day, Reckoning the torments of my hell,

And flinging my sweet joys away.

i am called home again to quiet peace;

My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

Yet what is living in her eye,

Or being blessed with her sweet tongue, If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong. To be your own but one poor month, I'd give My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

LOVE HATH NO PHYSICIAN.

A RESTLESS lover I espted,
That went from place to place;

Lay down and turned from side to side,
And sometimes on his face;

And when that med'cines were applied, In hope of intermission,

As one that felt no ease, he cried,
"Hath Cupid no physician ?"

What do the ladies with their looks,
Their kisses, and their smiles?
Can no receipts in those fair books
Repair their former spoils ?
But they complain as well as we,

Their pains have no remission;
And when both sexes wounded be,
"Hath Cupid no physician ?"
Have we such palsies and such pains,
Such fevers and such fits,

No quintessential chymic grains,
No Esculapian wits,

No creature can beneath the sun
Prevail in opposition ?

And when all wonders can be done,

"Hath Cupid no physician ?"

Into what poison do they dip

Their arrows and their darts,

That, touching but an eye or lip,

The pain goes to our hearts?

But now I see, before I get

Into their inquisition,

That Death had never surgeon yet,

Nor Cupid a physician.

• A fetter.

EARL OF PEMBROKE.

LOVE IN THE COUNTRY. DEAR, leave thy home and come with me That scorn the world for love of thee: Here we will live, within this park, A court of joy and pleasure's ark.

Here we will hunt, here we will range; Constant in love, our sports we'll change: Of hearts, if any change we make,

I will have thine, thou mine shalt take.

Here we will walk upon the lawns,
And see the tripping of the fawns;
And all the deer shail wait on thee,
Thou shalt command both them and me.

The leaves a whisp'ring noise shall make,
Their music-notes the birds shall wake;
And while thou art in quiet sleep,
Through the green wood shall silence keep.

And while my herds about thee feed.
Love's lessons in thy face I'll read,
And feed upon thy lovely look,

For beauty hath no fairer book.

It's not the weather, nor the air.

It is thyself, that is so fair;

Nor doth it rain when heaven lowers,

But when you frown, then fall the showers.

One sun alone moves in the sky-
Two suns thou hast, one in each eye;

Only by day that sun gives light-
Where thine doth rise there is no night.

Fair starry twins scorn not to shine
Upon my lambs, upon my kine;
My grass doth grow, my corn and wheat,
My fruit, my vines, thrive by their heat.

Thou shalt have wool, thou shait have silk,
Thou shalt have honey, wine, and milk;
Thou shalt have all, for all is due
Where thoughts are free and love is true.
EARL OF PEMBROKK

INCONSTANCY OF LOVE.

So glides along a wanten brook
With gentle pace into the main;
Courting the banks with amorous look
He never means to see again :
And so does Fortune use to smile

Upon the short-lived fav'rite's face,
Whose swelling hopes she does beguile,
And always casts him in the race:
And so doth the fantastic boy,

The god of the ill-managed flames,
Who ne'er kept word in promised joy
To lover nor to loving dames:

So all alike will constant prove,
Both Fortune, running streams, and Love.
EARL OF PEMBROKE

STILL TO BE NEAT, STILL TO BE DREST.

STILL to be neat, still be drest
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,

That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
BEN JONION.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, waich is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
• You may for ever tarry.

ROBERT HERRICK.

TO THE WILLOW-TREE.

THOU art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,

Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
And left off love, are crowned.

When once the lover's rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorn,
Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,
Bedewed with tears are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane,
Poor maids rewarded be,

For their lost love, their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,

The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,
Come to weep out the night.

ROBERT HERRICK.

353

How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
EDMUND WALLE3.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NYMPH AND A
SHEPHERD.

WHY sigh you, swain? this passion is not common;
Is 't for your kids or lambkins ?-" For a woman.'
How fair is she that on so sage a brow
Prints lowering looks?" Just such a toy as thou."
Is she a maid ?" What man can answer that ?"
Or widow ?-"No."-What then?" I know not what.
Saint-like she looks; a siren if she sing;

Her eyes are stars; her mind is everything."
she be fickle, shepherd, leave to woo,
Or fancy me.-"No: thou art woman too."
Eut I am constant.-"Then thou art not fair."
Bright as the morning!" Wavering as air!"
What grows upon this cheek?-"A pure carnation."
Come taste a kiss.—“O sweet, O swect temptation!'

2. It is an active flame, that flies, First to the babies of the eyes,

And charms them there with lullabies,

Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries.

2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
It frisks and flies, now here, now there;
'Tis now fer off, and then 'tis near,
Chor. And here, and there, and everywhere.

1. Has it a speaking virtue? 2. Yes.
1. How speaks it, say? 2. Do you but this,
Part your joined lips, then speaks your kiss;
Chor. And this Love's sweetest language is.

1. Has it a body? 2. Ay, and wings,
With thousand rare encolorings;
And as it flies, it gently sings,

Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings.
ROBERT HERRICK.