If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

CXIII.

Robert Burns.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

ROSE AYLMER.

AH! what avails the sceptred race?
Ah! what the form divine?
What every virtue, every grace?
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor.

CXIV.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

SIXTEEN.

IN Clementina's artless mien

Lucilla asks me what I see,

And are the roses of sixteen

Enough for me?

Lucilla asks if that be all,

Have I not culled as sweet before?

Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall

I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,

Where pleasure beams with Heaven's own light,

More pure, more constant, more serene,

And not less bright:

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,
And Modesty, who, when she goes,

Is gone for ever.

Walter Savage Landor.

CXV.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

FAIR, BRIGHT, AND SWEET.

WHY does azure deck the sky?
'Tis to be like thine eyes of blue;
Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue.
All that's fair, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!
Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair?
Why are solar beams so bright?

That they may seem thy golden hair!
All that's bright, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

Why are nature's beauties felt?

Oh! 'tis thine in her we see !
Why has music power to melt?
Oh! because it speaks like thee !
All that's sweet, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

CXVI.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

Thomas Moore.

BEAUTY'S DAUGHTER.

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me :

When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep :

So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of summer's ocean.

George, Lord Byron.

CXVII.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

A PORTRAIT.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light,
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

George, Lord Byron.

CXVIII.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

A SPIRIT, YET A WOMAN TOO.)

SHE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely apparition sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

William Wordsworth.

CXIX.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened ;-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,--
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim :-
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks :-

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean.
Lay thy sheaf adown and come

Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood.

CXX.

LOVE'S PRAISES.

HIS RULING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-coloured even,
Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of Heaven,
Beloved Star, dost thou delay ?