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O Love long looked for, wherefore wilt thou
wait, And show not yet the dawn on thy bright
Not yet thine hand released
Refreshing the faint east, Thine hand reconquering heaven, to seat man there?
Come forth, be born and live,
Thou that hast help to give
With Aight outflying the sphered sun, Hasten thine hour and halt not, till thy work be done.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
And hath its will through blissful gentle
James Russell Lowell.
ITS CONSCIOUS UNISON.
When eyes that erst could meet with ease,
The sure beginnings, say, be these
Arthur Hugh Clough.
LONG LOOKED FOR.
FIRST FANCY AND FIRST Love. Make yourselves wings, O tarrying feet ofl. There is a great difference between first Fate,
fancy and first love. Bulwer Lytton. And hidden hour that hast our hope to bear,
NOUGHT SO SWEET AS TRUE LOVE. A child-god, through the morning-colourd gate
Sitting by a river's side,
Where a silent stream did glide,
That the mind in quiet brings ;
Gold their god; and some esteem
Honour is the chief content
weeter than a wife's sweet kisses : No such quiet to the mind
true love with kisses kind.
pliments ever paid to a woman was that of Steele, when he said of Lady Eliz. Hastings, " that to have loved her was a liberal education." Viewed in this light, woman is an educator in the highest sense, because, above all other educators, she educates humanly and lovingly. It has been said that no man and no woman can be regarded as complete in their experience of life until they have been subdued into union with the world through their affections. As woman is not woman until she has known love, neither is man, man. Both are requisite to each other's completeness..... The true union must needs be one of mind as well as of heart, and bused on mutual esteem as well as mutual ttection.
ITS FERVENT DELIGHT.
Last night, when some one spoke his name,
O love! O fire ! once he drew
LOVIO THE MELODY OF HUMANITY. Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly : from below It is by means of this divine passion that Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow the world is kept ever fresh and young. It is Before him, striking on my brow. the perpetual melody of humanity. It sheds In my dry brain, my spirit soon, an eilulgence upon youth, and throws a halo Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, round age. It glorifies the present by the light Faints like a dazzled morning moon. it casts backward, and it lightens the future by! the beams it casts forward. The love which i
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, is the outcome of esteem and admiration !
Bursts into blossom in his sight. han an elevating and purifying effect on the character. It tends to emancipate one from! the slavery of self. It is altogether unsordid: My whole soul waiting silently, itself is its only price. It inspires gentleness. | All naked in a sultry sky, sympathy, mutual faith, and confidence. True i Droops blinded with his shining eye : love also in a measure elevates the intellect. 1 I will possess him or will die ! "All love renders wise in a degree," says the
Grow, live, die, looking on his face. poet Browning, and the most gifted minds
Tennyson. have been the sincerest lovers. Great souls make all affections great ; they clevate and consecrate all true delights. The sentiment
REASONABLE LOVE. even brings to light qualities before lying dormant and unsuspected. It elevates the That which is to be loved long is to be aspirations, expands the soul, and stimulates loved with reason, rather than with passion. the mental powers. One of the finest com- |
A COMPOUND PASSION. Love why do we one passion call, When 'tis a compound of them all ? Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet, In all their equipoises meet ; Where pleasures mix'd with pains appear, Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear.
Oh, prate no more to me of “dew-lit eyes," Of cheek, whose crimson doth outblush
the rose, Or neck in whiteness with the swan that vies,
Or hair that in one golden wavelet flows.
My love is like a sense of melody,
each vein, Till all the grosser passions in me die, And, save my love, no thoughts of earth remain.
He who loves to that degree that he wishes he were able to love a thousand times more than he does, yields in love to none but to him who loves more than he could wish.
Who love too much, hate in the like extreme.
The gnawing envy, the heart-fretting fear,
The vain surmises, the distrustful shows, The false reports that flying tales do bear, The doubts, the dangers, the delays, the
woes, The fained friends, the unassured foes, With thousands more than any tongue can
tell, Do make a lover's life a wretch's hell.
AKIN TO WORSHIP. Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from
woe ; And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest
blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow : And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes—but, oh ! While gazing on them sterner eyes will
gush, And into mine my mother's meekness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy
bow. For, thro' thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
SILENT HOURS BEST FOR LOVERS.
A CONTINUAL PREsence.
From sleep with plumage bathed in dew, And, like a young bird, lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.
NOT TO BE CONCEALED. In many ways doth the full hcart reveal The presence of the love it would conceal.
And when, at noon, the breath of love
O'er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove,
I think of thee, I think of thee.
I think of thee, when soft and wide
The Evening spreads her robes of light, And, like a young and timid bride,
Sits blushing in the arms of Night.
LIKE A SENSE OF MELODY. What is my love like? Ah, vain empty words, You mock me when I would express my
loveLove that wounds deeper than the sharpest
swords, Love that soars higher than the heavens
And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth, like blessed things,
I think of thee-I think of thee.
LEARNED IN NATURE AS WELL AS
BOOKS. Is love learn'd only out of poets' books? Is there not somewhat in the dropping
flood, And in the nunneries of silent nooks,
And in the murmur'd longing of the wood, That could make Margaret dream of lovelorn
looks, And stir a thrilling mystery in her blood, More trembly secret than Aurora's tear Shed in the bosom of an eglaterre?
Full many a sweet forewarning hath the mind,
Full many a whispering of vague desire, Ere comes the nature destined to unbind
Its virgin zone, and all its deeps inspire,-Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind Wakes all the green strings of the forest
lyre, Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose Its warm voluptuous breast doth all unclose.
They play'd at croquet on the lawn
I stopp'd awhile to watch the game,
I thought it very poor and tame,
And chatter'd gaily as she stood ;
A game at croquet might be good ! She ask'd me if I did not play,
And volunteer'd the rules to teach ; But I replied I could not stay
Which surely was a stupid speech ;Especially as I remain'd
Upon the ground at least an hour ! I felt my footsteps were restrain'd
By some unknown, resistless power ! I watch'd her play-she play'd it well, And knock'd the painted balls about.
Her eyes were bright
With true delight
She gave a merry little shout
At putting others to the rout! When she was “home” and once more free, She came again and talk'd to me.
Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit,
Wilder'd and dark, despairingly alone ; Though many a shape of beauty wander near
it, And many a wild and half-remember'd
I liked the laughter in her eyes, I liked the glow of exercise
Upon her cheek; and, as she play'd,
And touch'd mine ear with power. Her feet a pretty picture made,
Thus far or nigh, They are such dainty, tripping feet !
Minute or mighty, fix'd, or free with wings, But language there has made a slip,
Delight from many a nameless covert sly For feet like hers would never trip,
Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar sings. They're far too clever, and too neat!
I can express no kinder sign of love
Than th s kind kiss. Shakespeare. Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment;
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the
mind; down With her to supper ; once she spoke to me!
| And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind. Out of the common, trifling, prattling tone.
Shakespeare, I think that I have pass'd but two or three Short minutes with her when I could have
Great love is pliant and inquisitive in the spoken
instances of its expression. Too short to screw my courage up to
Jeremy Taylor. speakAnd now those sweet and slender threads
WORTHY OF ALL PRAISE. are broken,
Were there nothing else Save that which Memory holds and can For which to praise the heavens but only love, not break.
That only love were cause enough for praise. Now am I left to count my little gain
Tennyson. Of pleasure, with my so much greater pain.
Smiles are of love the food. Chagrin d'amour ne dure qu'un moment;
OH, I WILL LOVE THEE!
Oh, I will love thee! when the glorious sun The wings that he was left to heal alone ;
Doth gently sink behind yon western hill, But that will pass-there are so many more,
When all the various works of man are done, Alas! so many who will court her smiles ;
And every living thing is hush'd and still. So many who into her ears will pour
Oh, I will love thee ! when the queen of nigl.t That incense which all sorrow's thought
Riseth serenely from behind the trees, beguiles.
And poureth on the earth her silver light, And she the better thus will count her gain
And gently sporteth on the midnight breeze. Of pleasure for that little thought of pain.
Anon. Oh, I will love thee! when the vesper star
Shineth so brightly i hrough the woody dell, QUICKENS THE SENSES... When nought doth see it here or from afar, Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasures
Save that sad lonely bird, sweet Philomel ! seem;
Oh, I will love thee! when grey morning dawns There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground
In rich refulgence thro' the boson'd grove, But holds some joy, of silence or of sound,
And the bright dewdrops glisten on the lawn, Some sprite begotten of a summer dream.
And tempt the humble labourer's feet to rove. The very meanest things are made supreme
With innate ecstasy. No grain of sand Oh, I will love thee! when the howling blast But moves a bright and million-peopled Of sorrow's gale around thy head shall land,
swell ; And hath its Eden, and its Eves, I deem. When from thy heart thy peaceful thoughts For Love, though blind himself, a curious eye
are cast, Hath lent me, to behold the hearts of To thee I'll fondly whisper “All is well.” things,