THE kiss, with so much strife,
Which I late got, sweet Heart!
Was it a sign of death, or was it life?
Of life it could not be,
For I by it did sigh my soul in thee :
Nor was it death, death doth no joy impart.
Thou silent stand'st.-Ah! what didst thou bequeath; A dying life to me, or living death?
How comes it, Sleep! that thou
Even kisses me affords,
Of her (dear her), so far who's absent now?
How did I hear those words,
Which rocks might move, and move the pines to bow?
Ah me! before half day,
Why didst thou steal away
Return! I thine for ever will remain,
If thou wilt bring with thee that Guest again.
THAT learned Grecian who did so excel
In knowledge passing sense, that he is nam'd
Of all the after worlds Divine, doth tell—
That all the time when first our souls are fram'd,
Ere in these mansions blind they come to dwell,
They live bright rays of that eternal light,
And others see, know, love, in Heaven's great height;
Not toil'd with aught to reason doth rebel.
It is most true! for straight, at the first sight,
My mind me told that, in some other place,
It elsewhere saw the' idea of that face;
And lov'd a love of heavenly pure delight.
What wonder now I feel so fair a flame,
Since I her lov'd ere on this earth she came ?
O SACRED Blush! enpurpling cheeks'
pure skies
With crimson wings, which spread thee like the morn!
O bashful Look! sent from those shining eyes,
Which, though slid down on earth, doth heaven adorn!
O Tongue! in which most luscious nectar lies,
That can at once both bless and make forlorn!
Dear coral Lip! which beauty beautifies ;
That trembling stood, before her words were born!
And ye, her Words! words, no-but golden chains
Which did enslave my ears, ensnare my soul;
Wise image of her mind, mind that contains
A power all power of senses to control :
So sweetly you from love dissuade do me,
That I love more, if more my love can be.
SHE whose fair flowers no Autumn makes decay,
Whose hue celestial earthly hues doth stain;
Into a pleasant odoriferous plain
Did walk alone, to brave the pride of May;
And whilst through flowery lists she made her way,
That proudly smil❜d her sight to entertain,
Lo! unawares, where Love did hid remain
She spied, and sought of him to make her prey.
For which, of golden locks a fairest hair
To bind the boy she took; but he, afraid
At her approach, sprang swiftly in the air;
And, mounting far from reach, look'd back, and saidWhy should'st thou, Sweet, me seek in chains to bind,
"Sith in thy eyes I daily am confin'd?"
ALL other Beauties, howsoe'er they shine;
In hairs more bright than is the golden ore,
Or cheeks more fair than fairest eglantine,
Or hands like her that comes the sun before;
Match'd with that heavenly hue and shape of thine,
With those dear stars which my weak thoughts adore,
Look but as shadows-or if they be more,
It is in this, that they are like to thine!
Who sees those eyes, their force that doth not prove?
Who gazeth on the dimple of that chin,
And finds not Venus' son entrench'd therein,
Or hath not sense, or knows not what is love.
To see thee, had Narcissus had the grace,
He would have died with wondering on thy face!
TRUST not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow;
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow;
Nor snow of cheeks, with tyrian grain enroll'd :
Trust not those shining lights, which wrought my woe
When first I did their azure rays behold;
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the thracian harper have been told.
Look to this dying lily, fading rose ;
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice;
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes!
The cruel tyrant, that did kill those flow'rs,
Shall once, Ah me! not spare that Spring of your's.
WINDOW! Sometime which served for a sphere
To that dear Planet of my Heart, whose light
Made often blush the glorious queen of night;
While she in thee more beauteous did appear.
What mourning weeds, alas! dost thou now wear!
How loathsome to my eyes is thy sad sight!
How poorly look'st thou, with what heavy cheer,
Since set that sun which made thee shine so bright!
Unhappy, now thee close; for as of late
To wondering eyes thou wert a Paradise,
Bereft of her who made thee fortunate,
A gulf thou art, whence clouds of sighs arise:
But unto none so noisome as to me,
Who hourly see my murdered joys in thee!
ARE these the flowery banks, is this the mead
Where she was wont to pass the pleasant hours?
Was it here her eyes exhal'd mine eyes salt show'rs;
While on her lap did lay my wearied head?
Is this the goodly elm did us o'erspread,
Whose tender rind, cut forth in curious flowers
By that white hand, contains these flames of ours?
Is this the murmuring spring, us music made?
Deflourisht mead! where is your heavenly hue?
And, bank that arras did you late adorn?
How look'st thou, elm! all withered and forlorn?
Only sweet spring! nought alter'd seems in you:
But while here chang'd each other thing appears,
To salt your streams, take of mine eyes these tears!
My Lute! be as thou wert, when thou did grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove;
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice, which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth, to tune those spheres above;
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to their fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent, as in woods before:
Or, if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain!
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