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Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries ;
Longest stays, when sorest chidden ;
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.
Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odour to the lily,
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
Then bind Love to last for ever.
Love's a fire that needs renewal
Of fresh beauty for its fuel :
Love's wing moults when caged and captured,
Only free, he soars enraptured.
Can you keep the bee from ranging
Or the ringdove's neck from changing ?
No! nor fetter'd Love from dying
In the knot there's no untying.
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle-
Why not I with thine ?
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother :
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
P, B. Shelley
How sweet the answer Echo makes
To Music at night
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away o'er lawns and lakes
Goes answering light!
Yet Love hath echoes truer far
And far more sweet
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn or lute or soft guitar
The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh,-in youth sincere
And only then,
The sigh that's breathed for one to hear-
Is by that one, that only Dear
Breathed back again.
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh ;
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy ? The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd's suit to hear; To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know-
But where is County Guy?
Sir W. Scott
CLXXXVII TO THE EVENING STAR Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, Companion of retiring day, Why at the closing gates of heaven Beloved Star, dost thou delay? So fair thy pensile beauty burns When soft the tear of twilight flows ; So due thy plighted love returns To chambers brighter than the rose ; To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure some enamour'd orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee ! Thine is the breathing, blushing hour When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love's delicious witchery. O ! sacred to the fall of day Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay When Caroline herself is here !
Shine on her chosen green resort
Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
And wanton flowers, that well may court
An angel's feet to tread them down :-
Shine on her sweetly scented road
Thou star of evening's purple dome,
That lead'st the nightingale abroad, .
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue :
Where, winnow'd by the gentle air
Her silken tresses darkly flow
And fall upon her brow so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.
Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
In converse sweet to wander far--
O bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star !
TO THE NIGHT
Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night !
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear, --
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land
Touching all with thine opiate wand--
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried
Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
Shall I nestle near thy side ?
Wouldst thou me ?-And I replied
No, not thee !
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-
Sleep will come when thou art fled ;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovéd Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!
P. B. Shelley
TO A DISTANT FRIEND Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair ? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, Bound to thy service with unceasing careThe mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken birds-nest fill'd with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantineSpeak, that my torturing doubts their end may know !