ALL FOR LOVE. The village-church among the trees, 119 Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven. S. ROGERS. ALL FOR LOVE. O talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory: And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? "Tis but a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled; Then away with all such from the head that is hoary What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? O Fame!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises, "Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one dis cover. She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee, When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. LORD BYRON. SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW. 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, But now her looks are coy and cold, The love-light in her eye: H. COLERIDGE. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 121 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a phantom of delight, When first she gleamed upon my sight; To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; I saw her upon nearer view. Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine, A being breathing thoughtful breath, The reason firm, the temperate will, WORDSWORTH. I FEAR THY KISSES. I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden, I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, Innocent is the heart's devotion SONNET. P. B. SHELLEY. First time he kissed me, he but only kissed When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. 123 I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. My only love is always near,- She foots it ever fair and young. She ran before me in the meads; And down this world-worn track |