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Orval, or The Fool of Time

And Other Imitations and Paraphrases. By Robert Lytton
Lytton, Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton (1831-1891)

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[dedication]
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ORVAL;
 I. 
FIRST EPOCH. BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.
 2. 
SECOND EPOCH. HUSBAND AND WIFE.
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THIRD EPOCH. FATHER AND SON.
 I. 
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 II. 
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 III. 
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 IV. 
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 V. 
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 VI. 
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 VII. 
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 VIII. 
Scene VIII.
 IV. 
FOURTH EPOCH. MAN AND MAN.
 5. 
FIFTH EPOCH. MAN AND FATE.
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IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES.
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NONNOS.
  
EUROPA.
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VIRGIL.
  
THE BEES OF ARISTÆUS.
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LUCRETIUS.
  
INVOCATION TO VENUS
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DANTE.
  
THE FIRST CANTO OF THE INFERNO.
  
FRANCESCA DA RIMINO.
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MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI
  
THE BIRTH OF LOVE.
  
LOVE VINDICATED.
  
MADRIGALS.
  
CANZONE.
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RONSARD.
 I. 
“Voici le bois que ma saincte Angelette.”
 II. 
“Cache pour cest nuict.”
 III. 
“Page suy moy.”
 IV. 
“Les espics sont à Ceres.”
 V. 
“Ma douce jouvence.”
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DANISH.
  
THE ELVES.
  
LORD OLAF.
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SERVIAN.
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THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 I. 
I.THE STAG AND THE VILA.
 II. 
II.LOVE AND SLEEP.
 III. 
III.TITTLE-TATTLE.
 IV. 
IV.MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS.
 V. 
V.LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY.
 VI. 
VI.A SOUL'S SWEETNESS.
 VII. 
VII.REMINISCENCES.
 VIII. 
VIII.SLEEP AND DEATH.
 IX. 
IX.A CONJUGAL DISPUTE.
 X. 
X.DEGREES OF AFFECTION.
 XI. 
XI.THE FAIR IKONIA.
 XII. 
XII.A WISH.
 XIII. 
XIII.IMPERFECTION.
 XIV. 
XIV.EMANCIPATION.
 XV. 
XV.THE VOICE OF NATURE; OR, WHAT THE FISH SAID TO THE MAIDEN.
 XVI. 
XVI.THE MALADY OF MOIO.
 XVII. 
XVII.A SERVIAN BEAUTY.
 XVIII. 
XVIII.A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN.
 XIX. 
XIX.BOLOZÀNOVITCH THE KNAVE.
 XX. 
XX.THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA.
 XXI. 
XXI.SLEEPLESSNESS.
 XXII. 
XXII.NEGLECTED FLOWERS.
 XXIII. 
XXIII.PLUCKING A FLOWER.
 XXIV. 
XXIV.TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER.
 XXV. 
XXV.A MESSAGE.
 XXVI. 
XXVI.ISOLATION.
 XXVII. 
XXVII.A REGRET.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII.THE BAN OF VARADIN.
 XXIX. 
XXIX.FATIMA AND MEHMED.

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THE BIRTH OF LOVE.

I know not if, in waking dream, or sleep,
His light, that made her, on my soul hath shined;
Or if from out the memory or the mind
Aught else of brightness, pour'd, my spirit doth steep.
Perchance within me some late beam I keep
Of Heaven's original glory left behind;
Some smouldering sense of scarce I know what kind
Of sweetest pain; whence I perforce must weep.
Not of myself, nor can I well declare
Whence, is the power that in me moves, and guides
My dazzled heart through every new surprise.
But, since I saw you, lady, thus I fare,
Whom bitter sweet with yes and no divides.
Doubtless 'tis all the doing of your eyes.
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