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Till Hymen brought his love-delight'd hour,
O Love, first learn’d in a lady's eyes,
For valour, is not love a Hercules,
THE CONFESSION. There is a language by the virgin made, Not read but felt, not utter'd but betray'd, A mute communion, yet so wondrous sweet, Eyes must impart what tongue can ne'er repeat. 'Tis written on her cheeks and meaning brows; In one short glance whole volumes it avows ; In one short moment tells of many days, In one short speaking silence all conveys.
Joy, sorrow, love, recounts, - hope, pity, fear,
eyes melodious, and could music shower
E. S. BARRÉT.
A ROYAL BRIDE.
Too proud For less than absolute command, too soft For aught but gentle tender thought; her hair Cluster'd as from an orb of gold, cast out A dazzling and o'erpowering radiance, save Here and there on her white neck reposed, In a soothed brilliance, some thin wandering tress. The azure flashing of her eye was fringed With virgin meekness, and her tread that seemed Earth to disdain, as softly fell on it As the light dew shower on a tuft of flowers.
THE TWO FOUNTAINS.
I saw, from yonder silent cave,
Two fountains running side by side; The one was Memory's limpid wave,
The other cold Oblivion's tide. “Oh! Love,” said I, in thoughtless dream,
As o'er my lips the Lethe pass'd, “ Here, in this dark and chilly stream,
Be all my pains forgot at last."
But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain ? Quickly of Memory's fount I drank,
And brought the past all back again ;
Still let this soul to thee be true :
Oh! if thou lov'st, And art a woman, hide thy love from him Whom thou dost worship; never let him know How dear he is ; flit like a bird before him,Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower ; But be not won, or thou may’st, like that bird, When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected, And perish in forgetfulness.
Mysterious Love! Thy presence is around me, and I feel All its o’ermastering influence. A chain A viewless chain - binds
my stern spirit down To more than woman's gentleness. A spell, As 'twere of voiceless music, through my soul Steals with a soft delight unfelt before. I strive to break this thraldom, and arouse The vigour of my mind ;— but Love's own breath, Like the sweet south upon th’ Eolian lyre, Sweeps o'er my heartstrings. I'm again subdued, And all my efforts sink into -a sigh !
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
Oh! the days are gone when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove; When
dream of life from morn till night