Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high, Where eagles build their nest; Among the heather we 'll couch together, We'll leave the bower and tender flower But the wild blue bell shall bloom as well We shall not die, for all birds that fly And come the worst, we'll be help'd the first, The mist beneath, that curls its wreath Around the hill-top hoar, There will we hide, my bonny bride, And ne'er be heard of more. SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT. LIKE one pale, flitting, lonely gleam There came a thought upon my dream, Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight They come and go, and come again ; They 're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain Before they pass away. But whither go they? No one knows Their home, but yet they seem to say, That far beyond this gulf of woes, There is a region of repose For them that pass away. TO SOMEBODY. And the imperial votaress passed on In maiden meditation fancy free.-SHAKSPEARE. I BLAME not her, because my soul I charge her not with cruel pride, Too happy she, or to deride, I blame her not-she cannot know No fault hath she, that I desire What she cannot conceive; For she is made of bliss entire, And though she hath a thousand wiles, As fast as light, a thousand smiles Come showering from her face,— Those winsome smiles, those sunny looks, Her heart securely deems, Cold as the flashing of the brooks Her sweet affections, free as wind, Her being's law is gentle bliss, And quiet joy her loveliness, And gay delight her beauty. Then let her walk in mirthful pride, By her light spirit fortified In panoply of gladness. The joy she gives shall still be her's, The sorrow shall be mine; That pants for the divine. But better 'tis to love, I ween, And die of slow despair, Than die, and never to have seen A maid so lovely fair. SONG. 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, That bids a blithe good-morrow; But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark, To the soothing song of sorrow. Oh nightingale! What doth she ail? And is she sad or jolly? For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth So like to melancholy. The merry lark, he soars on high, He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, Yet ever and anon, a sigh, Peers through her lavish mirth; For the lark's bold song is of the sky, And her's is of the earth. |