New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam; But there's nothing half so sweet in life As Love's young dream. No! there's nothing half so sweet in life Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, He 'll never meet A joy so sweet In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close she blush'd to hear Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed, 'Twas morning's winged dream, 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again wwwwwwm T. MOORE. SONNET. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Or bends with the remover to remove: Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, SHAKSPERE. Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine, My other dearer life in life, Look through my very soul with thine. Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes ! since first I knew them well. TENNYSON. WOMAN'S LOVE. Oh! woman's love is a holy light, Which when once kindled cannot die; Seem cold and clouded; but it burns And never from its idol turns. Its sunshine is a smile; a frown The heavy cloud that weighs it down; Of woman's tears, there's danger there :) — A constant and confiding breast; Its joy to meet; its death to part; Its sepulchre-a broken heart! With more than Jewish reverence as yet Do I the sacred name conceal; When, ye kind stars, ah! when will it be fit When will our love be named, and we possess So bold as yet no verse of mine has been, Nor, till the happy nuptial muse be seen, Rest, mighty name! till then; for thou must be Then all the fields and woods shall with it ring; Then all the birds in several notes shall sing, Then every wind the sound shall upwards bear, And softly whisper 't to some angel's ear. COWLEY. The grace THE BRIDE. Nay, 'tis not of her meek, bending, snowy neck The flowing outline of proportion'd limbs That marks high birth; 'tis not, alone, a face In changeful blushes, as her sweetest lips the palpable ornaments Of the material mould,- Love's pageantry No, no! it is not these that win my heart; But 'tis the pure intelligence of mind That, like some inborn light, beams from her soul; The virtuous thoughts that clothe her like a garment; The chastity, the candour, and the meekness, That, through her parted hair, look from a brow J. BIRD. |