17

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Love.

WHEN the tree of Love is budding first,
Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet by shower and sunbeam nursed

Its infant life has been;

The wild bee's slightest touch might wring

The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing
Breaks the bubbles on the sea.

But when its open leaves have found
A home in the free air,

Pluck them, and there remains a wound
That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness

Is felt when fond ones part,

And the bitter tear that follows is

The life-blood of the heart.

When the flame of love is kindled first, "Tis the fire-fly's light at even,

'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst In the blue of the summer heaven.

A breath can bid it burn no more,
Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o'er
Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew

That fell in its first warm hour;

"Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head,

Whose task is to destroy;

'Tis the lamps on the altars of the dead,

Whose light but darkens joy.

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,
The infant buds of Love,
And tread his glowing fire to earth,
Ere 'tis dark in clouds above;
Cherish no more a cypress-tree
To shade thy future years,

Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
Quenched only with thy tears.

HALLECK.

Life's Joys.

'Tis sweet to mingle sighs and tears
With those whom we have loved for years;
And sweeter still with them to share
Life's joys, unmixed with pain and care.

The joys of life! oh, they abound
Like flowers upon a fertile ground,

When cultured well and nursed with care,

A beauteous sight, and prospect fair.

BLANCHE BENNAIRDE.

Maldens who Love.

MAIDENS who love are full of hope,
And crowds hedge in its golden scope;
Therefore, they love green solitudes,
And silence for their better moods.

PROEM TO THE "FROISSART BALLADS."

Some things Love Me.

All within and all without me
Feel a melancholy thrill,

And the darkness hangs about me,
Oh, how still!

To my feet the river glideth,

Through the shadow, sullen, dark; On the stream the white moon rideth Like a bark:

And the linden leans above me,
Till I think some things there be
In this dreary world that love me,—
Even me.

Gentle flowers are springing near me, Shedding sweetest breath around; Countless voices rise to cheer me,

From the ground;

And the love bird comes-I hear it
In the tall and windy pine,

Pour the sadness of its spirit
Into mine:

There it swings and sings above me,
Till I think some things there be
In this dreary world that love me,—
Even me.

Now the moon hath floated to me,
On the stream I see it sway,
Swinging boat-like, as 'twould woo me
Far away;

And the stars bend from the azure,
I could reach them where I lie,
And they whisper all the pleasure
Of the sky:

There they hang and smile above me,
Till I think some things there be
In this deary world that love me,—
Even me.

Now when flows the tide of even,
Like a solemn river, slow,
Gentle eyes akin to heaven

On me glow;