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To my room

I went, and closed and lock'd the door, And cast myself down by my bed,

And there, with many a blissful tear,

I vow'd to love and pray'd to wed

The maiden who had grown so dear; Thank'd God who had set her in my path; And promised, as I hoped to win, That I would never sully faith

By the least selfishness or sin; Whatever in her sight I'd seem

I'd really be; I ne'er would blend With my delight in her a dream

'Twould change her cheek to comprehend; And, if she wish'd it, would prefer Another's to my own success; And always seek the best for her, With unofficious tenderness. Rising, I breathed a brighter clime, And found myself all self above,

And, with a charity sublime,
Contemn'd not those who did not love:
And I could not but feel that then
I shone with something of her grace,
And went forth to my fellow-men
My commendation in my face.

Coventry Patmore.

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LEAVE THY HOME AND COME WITH ME.

Dear, leave thy home and come with me,
That scorn the world for love of thee;
Here we will live, within this park,
A court of joy and pleasure's ark.
Here we will hunt, here we will range :
Constant in love, our sports will change;
Of hearts, in any change we make,
I will have thine, thou mine shalt take.
Here we will walk upon the lawns,
And see the tripping of the fawns;
And all the deer shall wait on thee-
Thou shalt command both them and me.
The leaves a whispering noise shall make,
Their music-notes the birds shall wake,
And, while thou art in quiet sleep,
Through the green wood shall silence keep;
And while my herds about thee feed,
Love's lesson in thy face I'il read,
And feed upon thy lovely look,
For Beauty hath no fairer book.
'Tis not the weather nor the air,
It is thyself that is so fair;

Nor doth it rain when heaven lowers :
But when you frown then fall the showers.

One sun alone moves in the sky-
Two suns thou hast, one in each eye;
Only by day that sun gives light-
Where thou dost rise there is no night.
Earl of Pembroke.

THAT DROP OF BALM,

If we consider the high abstraction of this feeling of love, its depth, its purity, its voluptuous refinement even in the meanest breast, how sacred and how sweet it is; this alone may reconcile us to the lot of humanity. That drop of balm turns the bitter cup to a delicious nectar and vindicates the ways of God to man. Hazlitt.

THE STRENGTH MIRACULOUS OF
UNITED LOVE.

We read together, reading the same book,
Our heads bent forward in a half embrace,
So that each shade that either spirit took
Was straight reflected in the other's face :
We read, not silent, nor aloud, but each

Follow'd the eye that pass'd the page along With a low murmuring sound, that was not speech,

Yet with so much monotony,
In its half-slumbering harmony,
You might not call it song;

More like a bee that in the noon rejoices, Than any custom'd mood of human voices. Then if some wayward or disputed sense

Made cease awhile that music, and brought

on

A strife of gracious-worded difference,

Too light to hurt our souls' dear unison,
We had experience of a blissful state,
In which our powers of thought stood
separate,

Each, in its own high freedom, set apart,
But beth close folded in one loving heart;
So that we seem'd without conceit to be
Both one and two in our identity.
We pray'd together, praying the same prayer,
But each that pray'd did seem to be alone,
And saw the other in a golden air

Poised far away, beneath a vacant throne,
Beck'ning the kneeler to arise and sit
Within the glory which encompass'd it;
And when obey'd, the vision stood beside,
And led the way through the upper hyaline,
Smiling in beauty tenfold glorified,

Which, while on earth, had seem'd enough divine,

The beauty of the spirit-bride,

Who guided the rapt Florentine— The depth of human reason must become As deep as is the holy human heart, Ere aught in written phrases can impart The might and meaning of that ecstasy To those low souls, who hold the mystery Of the unseen universe for dark and dumb. But we were mortal still; and when again

We raised our bended knees, I do not say That our descending spirits felt no pain

To meet the dimness of an earthly day; Yet not as those dishearten'd, and the more Debased, the higher that they rose before, But, from the exaltation of that hour,

Out of God's choicest treasury bringing down

New virtue to sustain all ill-new power

To braid life's thorns into a regal crownWe pass'd into the outer world, to prove The strength miraculous of united love. Richard Monckton Milnes.

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THE PURE LOVER IS RAISED TO A
HOLIER STATE.

If it be true that any beauteous thing
Raises the pure and just desire of man
From earth to God, the eternal Fount of all,
Such I believe my love: for as in her,
So fair, in whom I all besides forget,
I view the gentle work of her Creator,
I have no care for any other thing
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous,
Since the effect is not of my own power,
If the soul doth by nature, tempted forth,
Enamour'd through the eyes,

Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth,
And through them riseth to the primal love
As to its end, and honours in admiring :
For who adores the Maker needs must love
His work.

7. E. Taylor.

LET'S NOT RUN AND WED IN HASTE.

Pr'ythee, Chloe, not so fast,
Let's not run and wed in haste;
We've a thousand things to do,—
You must fly, and I pursue;
You must frown, and I must sigh,
I entreat and you deny !
Stay-if I am never crost,
Half the pleasure will be lost;
Be, or seem to be, severe,
Give me reason to despair.
Fondness will my wishes cloy,
Make me careless of the joy.
Lovers may of course complain
Of their trouble and their pain,
But if pain and trouble cease,
Love without it will not please.
John Oldmixon,

A LADYE LOVE.

My Daphne's hair is twisted gold,
Bright stars apiece her eyes do hold;
My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces,
My Daphne's beauty stains all faces.

On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry,
But Daphne's lip's a sweeter berry;
Daphne's snowy hand but touch'd does melt,
And then no heavenlier warmth is felt;
My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres,
My Daphne's music charms all ears.
Fond am I thus to sing her praise,
These glories now are turn'd to bays.
John Lyly.

SERENADE.

Look out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the stars above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light;
Then, lady, up!-look out! and be
A sister to the night.

Sleep not thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast;
Sleep not! from her soft sleep should fly
Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady! from thy slumbers break,
And make this darkness gay
With looks whose brightness well might
make

Of darker nights a day

Pinkney.

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A LOVE-WILDERED AND IDOLATROUS

SOUL.

Well, in carnest, then.
She did but look upon him, and his blood
Blush'd deeper even from his inmost heart;
For at each glance of those sweet eyes a soul
Look'd forth as from the azure gates of
heaven.

She laid her finger on him; and he felt
As might a formless mass of marble feel,
While feature after feature of a God

Were being wrought from out of it. She spake;

And his love-wilder'd and idolatrous soul
Clung to the aëry music of her words,

Like a bird on a bough, high swaying in the wind.

He look'd upon her beauty and forgot,

As in a sense of drowning, all things else; And right and wrong seem'd one, seem'd nothing; she

Was beauty, and that beauty everything.
He look'd upon her as the sun on earth:
Until, like him, he gazed himself away
From heaven so doing; till he even wept,-
Wept on her bosom as a storm-charged
cloud

Weeps itself out upon a hill, and cried-
"I, too, could look on thee until I wept,-
Blind me with kisses! Let me look no
longer;

Or change the action of thy loveliness,
Lest long same-seemingness should send me
mad!

Blind me with kisses! I would ruin sight
To give its virtue to thy lips, whercon
I would die now, or ever live;" and she,
Soft as a feather-footed cloud on heaven,
While her sad face grew bright like night with
stars,

Would turn her brow to his and both be happy;

Number'd among the constellations they!
Then as a tired wanderer, snow-blinded, sinks
And swoons upon the swelling drift and dies;
So on her dazzling bosom would he lay
His famish'd lips, and end their travels there.
Oh, happy they! Not he would go to heaven--
Not, though he might that moment.

THE BLUSH OF TRUE LOVE.

Bailey.

Confusion thrill'd me then; and secret joy, Fast throbbing, stole its treasures from my heart, crimson.

And, mantling upward, turn'd my face to Brooke.

PLIGHTED TROTH.

I'll no walk by the kirk, mother,
I'll no walk by the manse;
I aye meet wi' the minister,
Wha looks at me askance.

What ails ye at the minister?A douce and sober lad;

I trow it is na every day

That siclike can be had.

I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
Nor yet his pawkie face;

I dinna like a preacher, mother,
But in a preaching place.

Then ye'll gang down by Holylee—
Ye needna look sae scared;
For wha kens but at Holylee

Ye'll aiblins meet the laird?

I canna bide the laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.

Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!

Its a' that Geordie Young; The laird has no an e'e like him,

Nor the minister a tongue!

He's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae;

For nane but him ye care;
But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
That aye gangs cauld and bare.

The faithu' heart will aye, mother,
Put trust in ane above;
And how can folks gang bare, mother,
Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
And walk ye slow and sly;
My certie! weel ye ken the gait

That Geordie Young comes by!

His plighted troth is mine, mother,
And lang afore the spring
I'll loose my silken snood, mother,
And wear the gowden ring.
Henry Glassford Bell.

If you knew his pure heart's truth,
You'd quickly learn to know him by his voice.
Shakespeare.

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Whose stately figure's varying grace
Is never seen, unless her face
Turn beaming toward another place :

For such a halo round it glows,
Surprised attention only knows
A lively wonder in repose.

Can flowers that breathe one little day
In odorous sweetness life away,
And wavering to the earth decay,

Have any claim to rank with her,
Warm'd in whose soul impulses stir,
Then bloom to goodness; and aver

Her worth through spheral joys shall move
When suns and systems cease above,
And nothing lives but perfect Love?
Thomas Woolner.

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THE BLESSIN' O' GOD MAUN MIX WI'

MY LOVE.

There's kames o' hinnie 'tween my luve's lips, And gowd amang her hair;

Her breists are lapt in a holy veil;

Nae mortal een keek there.

What lips daur kiss, or what han' daur touch,

Or what arm o' love daur span, The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe, Or the waist o' Lady Ann?

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