THE QUEEN.

I.

To heroism and holiness

How hard it is for man to soar, But how much harder to be less Than what his mistress loves him for!

He does with ease what do he must, Or lose her, and there's nought debarred

From him who's called to meet her trust,

And credit her desired regard. Ah, wasteful woman! she that may On her sweet self set her own price,

Knowing he cannot choose but pay; How has she cheapened paradise, How given for nought her priceless gift,

How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine,

Which, spent with due, respective thrift,

Had made brutes men, and men divine.

II.

O queen! awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give,

And comprehend and wear the crown
Of thy despised prerogative!
I who in manhood's name at length
With glad songs come to abdicate
The gross regality of strength,

Must yet in this thy praise abate, That through thine erring humble

ness

And disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much less Than fits his fellowship with thee. High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow,

The coward had grasped the hero's sword,

The vilest had been great, hadst thou,

Just to thyself, been worth's reward:

But lofty honors undersold

Seller and buyer both disgrace; And favor that makes folly bold Puts out the light in virtue's face. COVENTRY PATMORE.

I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy:
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone:
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

But, if no faithless action stain
Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways

As ne'er was known before; I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,

And love thee more and more. MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

TO LUCASTA.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.

THEY that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up:

Neither do, nor care to, know, Whether it be best or no.

So they that are to love inclined, Sway'd by chance, nor choice or art,

To the first that's fair or kind,
Make a present of their heart:
Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.

To man, that was in th' evening made,

Stars gave the first delight;
Admiring in the gloomy shade
Those little drops of light.

Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertained his eyes.

But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;
His wonder was determin'd there.
And could no higher rise.

He neither might nor wished to know

A more refulgent light; For that (as mine your beauties now),

Employed his utmost sight. EDMUND WALLER.

THE LADY'S YES.

"YES!" I answered you last night: "No!" this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below,
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes, or fit for No!

Call me false; or call me free;
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on thy face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both: Time to dance is not to woo; Wooer light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady's faith
Nobly as the thing is high,
Bravely as for life and death,
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards;
Point her to the starry skies;
Guard her by your faithful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore,
And her Yes, once said to you,
Shall be Yes for evermore.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

OUTGROWN.

NAY, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown: One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say;

And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and "made up "in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the selfsame plane, Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May; And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down;

She cannot look down to her lover: her love like her soul, aspires;

He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

JULIA C. R. DORR.

THE PORTRAIT.

GIVE place, ye ladies, and begone,
Boast not yourselves at all:
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone:

I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy:

It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.

In life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope;

In word and eke in deed steadfast:
What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her rosial color comes and goes
With such a comely grace,
More ruddier too, than in the rose
Within her lovely face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her
meet,
Nor at no wanton play,
Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as astray.

No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome

But serves for her familiar wear; The far-fetch'd diamond finds its home

Flashing and smouldering in her hair;

For her the seas their pearls reveal; Art and strange lands her pomp supply

With purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli;

The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves,

All doff for her their ornaments,

Which suit her better than themselves;

And all, by this their power to give Proving her right to take, proclaim

Her beauty's clear prerogative
To profit so by Eden's blame.
COVENTRY PATMORE.

Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own,

What are you when the rose is blown?

Ye curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays,

Thinking your voices understood By your weak accents, what's your praise

When Philomel her voice shall raise?

So when my mistress shall be seen, In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a

queen,

Tell me if she was not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind. SIR HENRY WOTTON.

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.

THOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,

By that pretty white hand o' thine, And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,

That thou wad aye be mine!
And I hae sworn by my God, my

Jeanie,

And by that kind heart o' thine, By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,

That thou shalt aye be mine!

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,

And the heart that wad part sic luve! But there's nae hand can loose my

band,

But the finger o' Him above. Though the wee wee cot maun be my bield,

And my clothing ne'er sa mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,

Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for

me

Fu' safter than the down; And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind kind wings,

Some angel she had been. Her long, loose yellow locks, like golden wire,

Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,

Do like a golden mantle her attire; And being crownèd with a garland green,

Seem like some maiden queen.
Her modest eyes abashèd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too
bold,

But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,

So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters,

did ye see

So fair a creature in your town before?

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,

Adorned with Beauty's grace and Virtue's store?

Her goodly eyes like sapphires, shining bright,

Her forehead ivory white, Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded,

Her lips like cherries charming men to bite,

Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded,

Her paps like lilies budded,