I rose to kill the snake, but she One might, perhaps, have cause to dread it; And when we know for what they wink so, To let it sting one-don't you think sc?" Thomas Moore [1779-1852] "WHEN I LOVED YOU" WHEN I loved you, I can't but allow Thus, whether we're on or we're off, To love you is pleasant enough, And oh! 'tis delicious to hate you! A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP "A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, "I'll build in this garden,—the thought is divine!” Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. "O never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim:But yon little god, upon roses reclining, We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him.” The Glove and the Lions 811 So the bargain was struck. With the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship and took away Love!" Thomas Moore [1779-1852] THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court. The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought," The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat; "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." Leigh Hunt [1784-1859] TO WOMAN WOMAN! experience might have told me But, placed in all thy charms before me, Oh, Memory! thou choicest blessing, When joined with hope, when still possessing; "Woman, thy vows are traced in sand." George Gordon Byron [1788-1824] LOVE'S SPITE You take a town you cannot keep; And, forced in turn to fly, O'er ruins you have made shall leap Lady Clara Vere de Vere 813 Her love is yours-and be it so But can you keep it? No, no, no! Upon her brow we gazed with awe, We shun with scorn the miry plain. Bright was her soul as Dian's crest Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen: Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902] LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, You sought to prove how I could love, Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O, your sweet eyes, your low replies! A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a specter in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door; You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. |