Brighter has it left thine eyes Than a sunny rill ;
And thy whispering melodies Are more tender still.
Yet as all things mourn awhile At fleeting blisses;
Let us too; but be our dirge A dirge of kisses.
UNFELT, unheard, unseen, I've left my little queen, Her languid arms in silver slumber lying: Ah! through their nestling touch, Who-who could tell how much There is for madness—cruel, or complying?
Those faery lids how sleek! Those lips how moist!-they speak, In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds: Into my fancy's ear
Melting a burden dear,
How "Love doth know no fullness, and no bounds."
True!-tender monitors!
I bend unto your laws :
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
So, without more ado,
I'll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.
HUSH, hush! tread softly! hush, hush, my dear! All the house is asleep, but we know very well That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, Tho' you've padded his night-cap-O sweet Isabel !
Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet, Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,- Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush, my dear! For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.
No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there
On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,
Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly; And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant,
Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want
No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,
my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.
Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly-sweet! We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink! Well done-now those lips, and a flowery seat- The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink ; The shut rose shall dream of our loves and awake Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take, The stock-dove shall hatch his soft twin-eggs and coo, While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!
I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving : O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die- Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
SHED no tear! O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O! weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies
Overhead! look overhead!
'Mong the blossoms white and red- Look up, look up. I flutter now On this fresh pomegranate bough. ! 'tis this silvery bill
See me Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, Adieu-I fly, adieu,
I vanish in the heaven's blue
SPIRIT here that reignest! Spirit here that painest!
Spirit here that burnest! Spirit here that mournest! Spirit! I bow
My forehead low, Enshaded with thy pinions! Spirit! I look,
All passion-struck,
Into thy pale dominions!
Spirit here that laughest!
Spirit here that quaffest!
Spirit here that dancest!
Noble soul that prancest! Spirit! with thee
I join in the glee,
While nudging the elbow of Momus! Spirit! I flush
With a Bacchanal blush,
Just fresh from the banquet of Comus!
AH! woe is me! poor silver-wing! That I must chant thy lady's dirge, And death to this fair haunt of spring, Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,- Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me! That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!
Go, pretty page! and in her ear Whisper that the hour is near! Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm favonian burial!
Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,
The blossoms hang by a melting spell, And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice Upon her closed eyes,
That now in vain are weeping their last tears, At sweet life leaving, and those arbors green,— Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres,- Alas! poor Queen!
O! WERE I one of the Olympian twelve, Their godships should pass this into a law,— That when a man doth set himself in toil After some beauty veiled far away,
Each step he took should make his lady's hand More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair;
And for each brier-berry he might eat,
A kiss should bud upon the tree of love, And pulp and ripen richer every hour, To melt away upon the traveler's lips.
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