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Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant
THE WEALTH OF LOVE.
Here, in our souls, we treasure up the wealth
SIR E. L. BULWER.
A WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.
With thee conversing I forget all time;
When first on this delightful land he spreads
THE TRANCE OF LOVE.
Love in a drowsy mood one day
Reclined, with all his nymphs around him,
And faded were the flowers that crown'd him.
Led smiling Beauty to implore him,
And Pleasure shook his roses o'er him.
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,
I said it was a wilful, wayward thing,
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 !
Oh! were I loved as I desire to be,
range of evil between death and birth,
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main
Love is a thing of frail and delicate growth ;