THE MANLY HEART.
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair,
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?
GEORGE WITHER.
ADIEU, LOVE.
So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, your treasure;
And evermore you sobbed and sighed,
Burning in flames beyond all measure.
Three days endured your love for me,
And it was lost in other three!
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love,
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Sure you have made me passing glad,
That you your love so soon removed,
Before that I the leisure had
To choose you for my best beloved;
For all your love was past and done
Two days before it was begun!
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love,
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.
There is a change,—and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did, not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count !
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? Shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well of love; it may be deep,-
I trust it is, and never dry.
What matter? If the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this hath done.
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer;
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair;
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.
Love wakes and weeps
While Beauty sleeps;
Oh! for music's softest numbers
To prompt a theme
For Beauty's dream,
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!
Through groves of palm
Sigh gales of balm;
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;
While through the gloom
Comes soft perfume,
The distant beds of flowers revealing.
Oh! wake and live!
No dreams can give
A shadowed bliss the real excelling;
No longer sleep
From lattice peep,
And list the tale that love is telling!
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Often have I heard it said,
That her lips were ruby-red;
Little heed I what they say,—
I have seen as red as they,
Ere she smiled on other men,
Real rubies were they then.
When she kissed me once in play,
Rubies were less bright than they,
And less bright were those which shone
In the palace of the sun.
Will they be as bright again?
Not if kissed by other men.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDON.
I saw a couch, I saw a quiet room,
Its shadows heaving by the firelight gloom;
All o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran,
All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling
I know not what,-but had the same been stealing
Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess
It would have made the loving mother dream
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