LIV. LOVE. They sin who tell us Love can die. In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, Its holy flame for ever burneth, From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth; Too oft on Earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest, Southey. LV. When Love was a child and went idling round, One morn in the valley a bower he found, O'er head, from the trees hung a garland fair, "Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there; But Love didn't know-and at his weak years, That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears He caught at the wreath-but with too much haste, It fell in those waters of briny taste, This garland he now wears night and day; With Pleasure's own light, each leaf they say, T. Moore. LVI. I have led her home, my love, my only friend. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good. There is none like her, none. Nor will be when our summers have deceased. O, art thou sighing for Lebanon In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, Sighing for Lebanon, Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased, Upon a pastoral slope as fair, And looking to the South, and fed With honey'd rain and delicate air, And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came. Is that enchanted moan only the swell Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? My own heart's heart, and ownest own, farewell. And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell, Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe That seems to draw-but it shall not be so: A. Tennyson. LVII. DOUBT. Bright laughs the sun; the birds that are to air In But, if she love me not! To me at this fair season still hath been In every wildflower an exhaustless treasure, How, in thy twilight, Doubt, at each unknown Ah, if she love me not! Well, I will know the worst, and leave the wind Mine, if she love me not. Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. |