Visions bright of happy youth, Thoughts of tenderness and truth, Blooms that, borrowed from the skies, Tell on earth of paradise! Αριαδνη. LOVE. I'LL sing of heroes and of kings, Straight I began with "Thundering Jove, Farewell, then, heroes! farewell kings! COWLEY. 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, SHAKSPERE. TO LOVE. 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. '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, 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. SPENSER. It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove; Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine ; And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this. Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the true, 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! CHARLES SWAIN. Dans un délire extrême On veut se venger; On jure de changer ; Love should be like that bird of light Which dwells in silent beauty there; ELIZA ACTON. 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; When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page A light the eyes can never see again ; LANDON. WOMAN'S LOVE. O, the voice of woman's love! 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! |