Song

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; O, then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light!

But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.

--_Hartley Coleridge_

To a Lofty Beauty, from Her Poor Kinsman

Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude, Thy mazy motions, striving to elude, Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes, Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes, And lovely all;--methinks thy scornful mood, And bearing high of stately womanhood,-- Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize O'er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee; For never sure was seen a royal bride, Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride-- My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee: But when I see thee at thy father's side, Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.

--_Hartley Coleridge_

Time of Roses

It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses-- We pluck'd them as we pa.s.s'd!

That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet: O no--the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses-- We pluck'd them as we pa.s.s'd!

--_Thomas Hood_

Hermione

Thou hast beauty bright and fair, Manner n.o.ble, aspect free, Eyes that are untouch'd by care; What then do we ask from thee?

Hermione, Hermione!

Thou hast reason quick and strong, Wit that envious men admire, And a voice, itself a song!

What then can we still desire?

Hermione, Hermione!

Something thou dost want, O queen!

(As the gold doth ask alloy), Tears--amidst thy laughter seen, Pity--mingling with thy joy.

This is all we ask from thee, Hermione, Hermione!

--_Bryan Waller Proctor_

Delia

Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamour'd busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!

O let me steal one liquid kiss!

For oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

--_Robert Burns_

Speaking and Kissing

The air which thy smooth voice doth break, Into my soul like lightning flies; My life retires while thou dost speak, And thy soft breath its room supplies.

Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, I join my trembling lips to thine, And back receive that life from thee Which I so gladly did resign.

Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire What numbers do the soul compose; No harmony can life inspire But that which from these accents flows.

--_Thomas Stanley_

A Rondeau to Ethel

"In tea-cup times"! The style of dress Would meet your beauty, I confess; Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear; I picture you the powdered hair,-- You'd make a charming Shepherdess!

And I--no doubt--could well express Sir Plume's complete conceitedness,-- Could poise a clouded cane with care "In tea-cup times"!

The parts would fit precisely--yes; We should achieve a huge success!

You should disdain, and I despair, With quite the true Augustan air; But ... could I love you more, or less,-- "In tea-cup times"?

--_Austin Dobson_

The Nun

If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me.

The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show.

What! you become a nun, my dear?

I'll not believe it, no!

If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be; The Cupids every one, dear, Will chant "We trust in thee."

The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a-dying, The water turn to wine; What! you go take the vows, my dear?

You may--but they'll be mine!