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61
Of the Heart.
63
MADRIGAL.
A maid is sitting by a brook,
The sweetest of sweet creatures:
I pass that way with my good book
Yet cannot read, nor cease to look
Upon her winsome features.
The sweetest of sweet creatures:
I pass that way with my good book
Yet cannot read, nor cease to look
Upon her winsome features.
Amid the blushes on her cheek
Her small, white hand reposes:
I am a shepherd, for I seek
That wilful lamb, with fleece so sleek,
Feeding among the roses!
Her small, white hand reposes:
I am a shepherd, for I seek
That wilful lamb, with fleece so sleek,
Feeding among the roses!
64
MY LITTLE LOVE.
When my little love at purple dusk,
Trips out upon the lawn among the flowers,
The blushing roses quiver in their musk,
Love-smitten through: the feathery, fragrant showers
Of snow-white blossoms drift upon the grass,
Kissing her whispering footsteps as they pass.
Trips out upon the lawn among the flowers,
The blushing roses quiver in their musk,
Love-smitten through: the feathery, fragrant showers
Of snow-white blossoms drift upon the grass,
Kissing her whispering footsteps as they pass.
When my little love at evening's hush,
Goes dancing down the dell with laugh and song,
The slumbering echoes waken, and a gush
Of silvery voices greet her, and along
The dewy clusters of the trailing vines
In music mingles, murmurs, and repines.
Goes dancing down the dell with laugh and song,
The slumbering echoes waken, and a gush
Of silvery voices greet her, and along
The dewy clusters of the trailing vines
In music mingles, murmurs, and repines.
When my little love hath sought her cot
To dream of angels, as the stars grow clear
I homeward plod—alas! unhappy lot—
Yet turn again—I'd long to tarry near—
Till slowly wandering, thinking of her still,
I meet the blue night coming o'er the hill.
To dream of angels, as the stars grow clear
I homeward plod—alas! unhappy lot—
Yet turn again—I'd long to tarry near—
Till slowly wandering, thinking of her still,
I meet the blue night coming o'er the hill.
65
SWEETHEART.
O! this love of mine!
Never artist's dream
Was as fair as she:
Jetty locks, that seem
Glossy as can be—
Night before the day
Hath streaked it through with gray.
Never artist's dream
Was as fair as she:
Jetty locks, that seem
Glossy as can be—
Night before the day
Hath streaked it through with gray.
O! this love of mine!
Brow as white as sands
On a tropic shore;
Eyes as deep as seas
And darker than before
Dawn hath turned them blue;
Cheeks of richest hue,
Pink as pinkest shell
That ever mermaid bore
From enchanted lands
Home where she did dwell.
Sometimes, if I please
That she blossom more,
Her beauty is so fine—
Rosy as red wine.
Brow as white as sands
On a tropic shore;
Eyes as deep as seas
And darker than before
Dawn hath turned them blue;
Cheeks of richest hue,
Pink as pinkest shell
That ever mermaid bore
From enchanted lands
66
Sometimes, if I please
That she blossom more,
Her beauty is so fine—
Rosy as red wine.
O! this love of mine!
Mouth a ripened fruit,
If the maid is mute,
Tempting me to sin
In delicious greed;
If a smile I win,
Then with charming speed
It is cleft indeed,
Showing pearly seed.
Mouth a ripened fruit,
If the maid is mute,
Tempting me to sin
In delicious greed;
If a smile I win,
Then with charming speed
It is cleft indeed,
Showing pearly seed.
O! this love of mine!
Such a witching curl,
Such a cunning chin,
Like a single pearl
With a dimple in;
Parian carvéd throat
All of curvéd lines
Such as Psyche shows,
When she sad reclines
In some isle remote
Mourning Cupid's boat
Fading out of view;
Is the picture true?
Then her bosom's snow
In twin drifts, but hush!—
All that I have shown
Could not bid her blush:
If you are a maid,
Since never was a pair,
Quite too much is said
Unless you are as fair;
If you are a man,
Mate her if you can!
Such a witching curl,
Such a cunning chin,
Like a single pearl
With a dimple in;
Parian carvéd throat
All of curvéd lines
67
When she sad reclines
In some isle remote
Mourning Cupid's boat
Fading out of view;
Is the picture true?
Then her bosom's snow
In twin drifts, but hush!—
All that I have shown
Could not bid her blush:
If you are a maid,
Since never was a pair,
Quite too much is said
Unless you are as fair;
If you are a man,
Mate her if you can!
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