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Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant
(As would my deeds have been) with hourly care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine ;
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

WORDSWORTH.

THE WEALTH OF LOVE.

Here, in our souls, we treasure up the wealth
Fraud cannot filch, nor waste destroy ;-— the more
'Tis spent, the more we have ;—the sweet affections-
The heart's religion — the diviner instincts
Of what we shall be when the world is dust!

SIR E. L. BULWER.

A WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.

With thee conversing I forget all time;
All seasons and their change, all please alike ;
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun,

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When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the

gems
of heaven, her starry

train :
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers ;
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
Or glittering starlight - without thee is sweet.

Milton.

THE TRANCE OF LOVE.

Love in a drowsy mood one day

Reclined, with all his nymphs around him,
His feather'd darts neglected lay,

And faded were the flowers that crown'd him.
Young Hope, with eye of light, in vain

Led smiling Beauty to implore him,
While Genius pour’d his sweetest strain,

And Pleasure shook his roses o'er him.

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At length a stranger sought the grove,

And fiery Vengeance seem'd to guide him, He rudely tore the wreaths of Love,

And broke the darts that lay beside him. The little God now wakeful grew,

And, angry at the bold endeavour, He rose, and wove his wreaths anew,

And strung his bow more firm than ever.

When, lol the invader cried, “ Farewell ! : My skill, bright nymphs, this lesson teaches,While Love is sprightly bind him well

With smiles, and songs, and honied speeches; But should dull languor seize the God,

Recall me on my friendly mission ; For know when Love begins to nod, His surest spur is opposition.”

From the Italian,

LOVE'S ARTIFICE.

I said it was a wilful, wayward thing,
And so it is,— fantastic and perverse !
Which makes its sport of persons and of seasons,
Takes its own way, no matter right or wrong.
It is the bee that finds the honey out,
Where least you dream 'twould seek the nectarous

store.

And 'tis an errant masquer

this same love – That most outlandish, freakish faces wears To hide his own! Looks a proud Spaniard now; Now a grave Turk; hot Ethiopian next; And then phlegmatic Englishman; and then Gay Frenchman; by and by Italian, at All things a song ; and in another skip, Gruff Dutchman still is Love behind the masque! It is a hypocrite !- looks every way But that where lie its thoughts !-- will openly Frown at the thing it smiles in secret on; Shows most like hate, e'en when it most is love; Would fain convince you it is very rock When it is water ! ice when it is fire ! Is oft its own dupe, like a thorough cheat ; Persuades itself 'tis not the thing it is ; Holds up its head, purses its brows, and looks Askant, with scornful lip, hugging itself That it is high disdain - till suddenly It falls on its knees, making most piteous suit With hail of tears and hurricane of sighs, Calling on heaven and earth for witnesses That it is love, true love,- nothing but love !

SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

SONNET.

Oh! were I loved as I desire to be,
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
And

range of evil between death and birth,
That I should fear,- if I were loved by thee?
All the inner, all the outer world of pain
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert

mine;

As I have heard that, somewhere in the main
Fresh water springs come up through bitter brine.
'Twere joy, not fear, clasp'd hand in hand with thee,
To wait for death — mute - careless of all ills,
Apart upon a mountain, though the surge
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge
Below us, as far on as eye could see.

A. TENNYSON.

Love is a thing of frail and delicate growth ;
Soon check’d, soon foster’d; feeble and yet strong;
It will endure much, suffer long, and bear
What would weigh down an angel's wing to earth,
And yet mount heavenward ; but not the less
It dieth of a word, a look, a thought ;
And when it dies, it dies without a sign

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