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Visions bright of happy youth,
Thoughts of tenderness and truth,
Blooms that, borrowed from the skies,
Tell on earth of paradise !

Αριαδνη. .


I'll sing of heroes and of kings,
In mighty numbers, mighty things.
Begin, my Muse! -- but, lo! the strings
To my great song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but love.
I broke them all, and put on new ;
'Tis this or nothing sure will do.
These sure, said I, will me obey ;
These sure heroic notes will play.
Straight I began with “ Thundering Jove,
And all the immortal powers ;" but Love,
Love smiled, and from my enfeebled lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love and tender fire.
Farewell, then, heroes ! farewell kings !
And mighty numbers, mighty things!
Love tunes my heart just to my strings.


Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell :
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purpled with love's wound,
And maidens call it “ Love in idleness.”



O sacred fire that burnest mightily

In living breasts, ykindled first above Emongst th' eternal spheres and lamping sky,

And thence pour’d into men, which men call love.

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'Tis that sweet fit, that does true beauty love,

And choseth virtue for his dearest dame, Whence spring all noble deeds, and never-dying fame.

Well did antiquitie a god thee deeme

That over mortal minds has so great might, To order them as best to thee doth seeme,

And all their actions to direct aright; The fatal purpose of divine foresight

Thou dost effect in destined descents, Through deep impression of thy secret might ;

And stirrest up the heroes high intents, Which the late world admires for wondrous monuments.


Ne suffereth uncomely idleness

In his free thought to build her sluggish nest. Ne suffereth it thought of ungentleness

Ever to creep into his noble breast; But to the highest and the worthiest

Lifteth it up that else would lowly fall; It lets not fall,—it lets it not to rest :

It lets not scarce the prince to breathe at all, But to his first pursuit him forward still doth call.


Love? I will tell thee what it is to love.
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine.
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine ;
Around the streams their flowery margin kiss ;
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely


Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the true,
The immortal glory which hath never set ;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew :
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet !
Oh! who but can recall the eve they met

To breathe in some green walk their first young vow, While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow, And all was rapture then which is but memory now!


Dans un délire extrême
On veut fuir ce qu'on aime ;
On veut se venger ;
On jure de changer ;
On devient infidèle ;
On court de belle en belle;
Mais on revient toujours
A ses premiers amours.

Love should be like that bird of light
Which floateth still on radiant wings,
A creature glorious, soft, and bright,
Beyond young Thought's imaginings;
A spirit of the bowers of air,
Which dwells in silent beauty there ;
A delicate fair thing ;—too pure
This world's cold vapours to endure;
Which far away from shade and gloom

In sun-bright regions fearless flies ;
But if on earth-stain soil, its plume
Of paradise declines and dies.


Love is like the glass That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful. The morning looks Its very loveliest when the fresh air Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red; And the hot noon flits by most rapidly When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page Bearing the poet's words of love and then The twilight walk when the link'd arms can feel The beating of the heart : upon the air There is a music never heard but once,A light the eyes can never see again ; Each star has its own prophecy of hope, And every song and tale that breathe of love Seem echoes of the heart.



O, the voice of woman's love!

What a bosom-stirring word !
Was a sweeter ever utter'd,
Was a dearer ever heard,

Than woman's love ?

How it melts upon the ear!

How it nourishes the heart !

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