By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a high thing out of heaven This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night! -as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart, as that within my breast! SHAKSPERE. Hard is the heart, and unsubdued by love, That feels no pain, nor ever heaves a sigh, Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove, Or freeze in cold insensibility. Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow! Nor think it weakness when we love, to feel; Nor think it weakness what we feel to show. CowPER. E LOVE'S ECHOES. How sweet the answer Echo makes When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, Yet Love hath echoes truer far, Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star, 'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, And only then, The sigh that's breathed for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear, Breathed back again! T. MOORE. SONG OF THE ABSENT. Lady when the moonlight hour And visions sweet of bygone hours Float round thee with the breath of flowers, Remembering I am still to thee Faithful, though far away! Lady! when the deep midnight When thy sweet lips in secret bless Wafting their names beyond the skies, Oh! breathe one fervent prayer for me! Faithful, though far away! КАРРА. With thee for ever I in woods could rest, Where never human foot the ground hath press'd. Thou from all shades the darkness canst exclude, And from a desert banish solitude. COWLEY. THE MINSTREL'S LOVE. He loved, as minstrel-elf must prove, So the young glow and melting shower Perfume and suppliance of an hour ;— Such curse upon the lyre is cast: As fires of sudden vividness Exhausted by their own excess. And such the wreath his passion braided Wandering for ever, never cured. For something high and pure, above This withering world, which, from the first, Made me drink deep of woman's love,— As the one joy, to heaven most near T. MOORE. LOVE. When Virtue dies in pallid Want's embrace E. ELLIOTT. They sin, who tell us Love can die : In heaven Ambition cannot dwell, Its holy flame for ever burneth : From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. SOUTHEY. |