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 [1792–1822]

FROM THE ARABIC

My faint spirit was sitting in the light
Of thy looks, my love;

It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks, my love.

Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight,
Bore thee far from me;

My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,

Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,

Or the death they bear,

The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove

With the wings of care;

In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,

Shall mine cling to thee,

Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,

It may bring to thee.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

THE WANDERING KNIGHT'S SONG

My ornaments are arms,

My pastime is in war,

My bed is cold upon the wold,

My lamp yon star.

My journeyings are long,

My slumbers short and broken;
From hill to hill I wander still,

Kissing thy token.

Song

I ride from land to land,

I sail from sea to sea;

Some day more kind I fate may find,
Some night, kiss thee.

605

John Gibson Lockhart [1794-1854]

SONG

From "Sylvia"

I'VE taught thee love's sweet lesson o'er,
A task that is not learned with tears:
Was Sylvia e'er so blest before

In her wild, solitary years?

Then what does he deserve, the youth
Who made her con so dear a truth?

Till now in silent vales to roam,
Singing vain songs to heedless flowers,
Or watch the dashing billows foam,
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers-

To weave light crowns of various hue-
Were all the joys thy bosom knew.

The wild bird, though most musical,
Could not to thy sweet plaint reply;

The streamlet, and the waterfall,

Could only weep when thou didst sigh!
Thou couldst not change one dulcet word,
Either with billow or with bird.

For leaves and flowers, but these alone,
Winds have a soft, discoursing way;
Heaven's starry talk is all its own,-

It dies in thunder far away.

E'en when thou would'st the moon beguile

To speak, she only deigns to smile!

Now, birds and winds, be churlish still!
Ye waters, keep your sullen roar!
Stars, be as distant as ye will,—
Sylvia need court ye now no more:

In love there is society

She never yet could find with ye!

George Darley [1795-1846]

THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY

SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air?

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming

To wind round the willow-banks that lure him from
above:

Oh that, in tears from my rocky prison streaming,
I too could glide to the bower of my love!

Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,

Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,

Listening like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forest far away?

Come, then, my bird! for the peace thou ever bearest,
Still Heaven's messenger of comfort be to me;
Come! this fond bosom, my faithfulest, my fairest,
Bleeds with its death-wound,-but deeper yet for thee.
George Darley [1795-1846]

BALLAD

SIGH on, sad heart, for love's eclipse
And beauty's fairest queen,
Though 'tis not for my peasant lips

To soil her name between:

A king might lay his scepter down,
But I am poor and naught;
The brow should wear a golden crown
That wears her in its thought.

Ballad

The diamonds glancing in her hair,
Whose sudden beams surprise,
Might bid such humble hopes beware
The glancing of her eyes;

Yet, looking once, I looked too long;
And if my love is sin,

Death follows on the heels of wrong,
And kills the crime within.

Her dress seemed wove of lily-leaves,
It was so pure and fine-

Oh lofty wears, and lowly weaves,
But hodden gray is mine;

And homely hose must step apart,
Where gartered princes stand;
But may he wear my love at heart
That wins her lily hand!

Alas! there's far from russet frieze
To silks and satin gowns;

But I doubt if God made like degrees
In courtly hearts and clowns'.
My father wronged a maiden's mirth,
And brought her cheeks to blame;
And all that's lordly of my birth
Is my reproach and shame!

'Tis vain to weep, 'tis vain to sigh,
'Tis vain this idle speech-
For where her happy pearls do lie
My tears may never reach;
Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride
May say, of what has been,
His love was nobly born and died,
Though all the rest was mean!

My speech is rude,--but speech is weak
Such love as mine to tell;

Yet had I words, I dare not speak:
So, lady, fare thee well!

607

I will not wish thy better state
Was one of low degree,

But I must weep that partial fate

Made such a churl of me.

Thomas Hood (1799-1845]

SONG

A LAKE and a fairy boat

To sail in the moonlight clear,→

And merrily we would float

From the dragons that watch us here!

Thy gown should be snow-white silk,
And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk,

Should twine with thy raven curls.

Red rubies should deck thy hands,
And diamonds be thy dower-
But fairies have broke their wands,
And wishing has lost its power!

Thomas Hood (1799-1845]

"SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME"

THOUGH, when other maids stand by,

I may deign thee no reply,

Turn not then away, and sigh,-

Smile, and never heed me!

If our love, indeed, be such

As must thrill at every touch,
Why should others learn as much?―
Smile, and never heed me!

Even if, with maiden pride,
I should bid thee quit my side,
Take this lesson for thy guide,—

Smile, and never heed me!