HOW SHALL I WOO HER? L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois: c'est la premiere. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires! La Bruyere. I. How shall I woo her ?-I will stand And watch that fine and fairy hand Though sweet her song may be, A voice, whose every whispered word Was more than song to me! II. How shall I woo her?-I will gaze, In sad and silent trance, On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays Look love in every glance: And I will tell her, eyes more bright, Though bright her own may beam, Will fling a deeper spell to-night III. How shall I woo her?-I will try And swear by earth and sea and sky, And I will tell her when I bent My knee in other years, I was not half so eloquent, I could not speak for tears! IV. How shall I woo her?-I will bow Before the holy shrine; And pray the prayer, and vow the vow, And press her lips to mine; And I will tell her, when she parts From passion's thrilling kiss, That memory to many hearts Is dearer far than bliss. V. Away! away! the chords are mute, The bond is rent in twain ; You cannot wake that silent lute, Love's toil I know is little cost, Love's perjury is light sin; But souls that lose what I have lost,— What have they left to win? STANZAS. The lady of his love, oh, she was changed, As by the sickness of the soul! Byron. Go thou, while in thy soul, and fill a throne Of innocence and purity, in Heaven! Ford. I KNOW that it must be, Yea! thou art changed-all worshipped as thou art— Mourned as thou shalt be! Sickness of the heart Hath done its work on thee! Thy dim eyes tell a tale, A pitious tale, of vigils; and the trace Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face, Beauteous, and yet so pale! Changed love! but not alone! I am not what they think me; though my cheek Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak Thus in my natural tone. The temple of my youth Was strong in moral purpose: once I felt The glory of philosophy, and knelt I went into the storm, And mocked the billows of the tossing sea; I said to Fate, "What wilt thou do to me? Vainly the heart is steeled In Wisdom's armour; let her burn her books! Virtue and Virtue's rest, How have they perished! Through my onward course The glory and the glow Of the world's loveliness have passed away; And Fate hath little to inflict, to-day, And nothing to bestow ! |