CXLIX.

LOVE'S PROTESTATION.

O WERE MY LOVE.

O WERE my Love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing:
How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.
O gin my Love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

O! there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Sealed on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fleyed awa' by Phoebus' light.

Robert Burns.

CL.

LOVE'S PROTESTATION.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O!

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrowed field

Return sae dowf and wearie, O!
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O!

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O,
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie, O!

Although the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O!

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery, O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O !

Robert Burns.

CLI.

LOVE'S PROTESTATION.

A SERENADE.

I ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright: I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me-who knows how?-
To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent streamThe champak odours fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint

It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine,

O beloved as thou art !

O lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; O! press it close to thine again Where it will break at last.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

CLII.

LOVE'S PROTESTATION.

WORSHIP.

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden;
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion

With which I worship thine.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

CLIII.

LOVE'S PROTESTATION.

LOVE'S DEVOTION.

ONE word is too often profaned
For me to profane it;

One feeling too falsely disdained

For thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

CLIV.

LOVE'S PROTESTATION.

ONE HOUR WITH THEE!

AN hour with thee !-when earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern gray,
Oh! what can frame my mind to hear
The toil, the turmoil, cark and care,
New griefs, which coming hours unfold,
And sad remembrance of the old ?—
One hour with thee.

One hour with thee!- when burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;

What shall repay the faithful swain

His labour on the sultry plain,

And more than care or sheltering bough,

Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?-
One hour with thee.

One hour with thee !--when sun is set,

Oh, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labours of the day,

The hopes, the wishes, flung away,

The increasing wants, and lessening gains,

The master's pride, who scorns my pains?—

One hour with thee.

Sir Walter Scott.

CLV.

LOVE'S PROTESTATION.

GENEVIEVE.

MAID of my love, sweet Genevieve !
In beauty's light you glide along :
Your eye is like the star of eve,

And sweet your voice as seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives

This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of woe :
When sinking low, the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretched to save,
Fair as the bosom of the swan

That rises graceful o'er the wave,

I've seen your breast with pity heave,

And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve !

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.