Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night. By the sycamore pass'd he, and thro' the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight: But I'll love him more, more LOVE'S MEETING-PLACE. How many a magic Love doth quite Where under thin-veil'd shifting sky Parted in vain, may find their will, And come together as they range, And fall into sweet interchange Like waves with waves, whereof some sign Of either brimming heart, doth bring Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us, unheeded, flee the sweet hours o' love. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? And when wit and refinement hae polished her darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me; And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, Oh, these are my lassie's all- conquering charms! Robert Burns. MEETING OF LOVERS. Of all the things a man may have Of all the joys that he may win Much more than any rapturous past: And this-the fairest moment, sure, In each man's life-it shall endure Some noon; while creeping twilight dims Slowly some flower's purple rims, Or some green distance suffers change Nay, for there shall be bliss and bliss, And the same sweet and the same sight, And the heart, through some mystery, Hereafter, surely I may say, That seem'd to make the world anew, In their own soft and murmurous tone, Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy. THE GARDEN WHERE WE MET. HERE'S the garden she walk'd across, She must have reach'd this shrub ere she turn'd, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurn'd, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brush'd the And here she paused in her gracious talk I will never think that she pass'd you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know, But yonder, see where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopp'd at, finger on lip, Stoop'd over, in doubt as settling its claim; Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her one of these days To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not; Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestleIs not the dear mark still to be seen? THE MEETING. ON the mountain, in the woodland, I have seen thee, I have met thee! In the soft ambrosial hours of night, In darkness silent sweet I beheld thee, I was with thee; Again we met. The whisp'ring leaves Glanced nigh in night and shadow; The reapers piled their yellow sheaves, The bees humm'd o'er the meadow; The royal sun rose up in state, Our marriage day adorning ; The bells rang out; wide stood the gate, And neither of us was too late To go to church that morning. Anon. IN THE OLD GARDEN. THRO' pastures and thro' fields where corn grew strong, By cottage nests that could not harbour wrong; Across the bridge where laugh'd the stream; along The road to where her gabled mansion stood, Old, tall, and spacious, in a massy wood. We loiter'd toward the porch; but paused meanwhile Where Psyche holds a dial to beguile In the deep peacefulness which shone around My soul was soothed: no darksome vision frown'd Before my sight while cast upon the ground I then but yearn'd for Titian's glorious power, Of rich delight, that beauty I could see, TWO WAYS OF MEETING. I MET her in the quiet lane The wild bells chimed their warning, We paused awhile outside the gate, We linger'd till it was too late To go to church that morning. WHEN ripen'd time and chasten'd will Have stretch'd and tuned for love's accords The five-string'd lyre of life, until It vibrates with the wind of words; And 'Woman,' 'Lady,' 'She,' and 'Her' Are names for perfect good and fair, And unknown maidens, talk'd of, stir His thoughts with reverential care; He meets, by heavenly chance express, His destined wife: some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness Which others cannot understand. No songs of love, no summer dreams Did e'er his longing fancy fire With vision like to this: she seems In all things better than desire. His merits in her presence grow, To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise. For love of her he cannot sleep; Her beauty haunts him all the night; It melts his heart, it makes him weep For wonder, worship, and delight. Coventry Patmore. IN THE OVER-ARCHING GROVES. AT morn, as if beneath a galaxy Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, Where all was od❜rous scent and harmony, And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight: There, if, O gentle love, I read aright The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond, 'Twas listening to these accents of delight, She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond. "Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone! Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning and scorn'd by Fortune's power, than and splendours lavish'd at my Her Own pomp feet! Then would that home admit them happier far Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon- A Paradise of hearts more sacred sway! Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire! Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine! Thomas Campbell. |