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LOVE'S PANEGYRICS.

'Tis nature's second sun,

Causing a spring of virtues where he shines. And as without the Sun, the world's Great

Eye,

All colours, beauties, both of art and nature,
Are given in vain to man; so without Love,
All beauties bred in women are in vain,
All virtues born in men lie buried;
For love informs them as the sun doth colours,
And as the Sun, reflecting his warm beams
Against the earth, begets all fruit and flowers,
So Love, fair shining in the inward man,
Brings forth in him the honourable fruits
Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts,
Brave resolution, and divine discourse.

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FROM "PSYCHE."

WHEN pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth, And the gay hours on downy wing ad

vance,

Oh! then 't is sweet to hear the lip of truth Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance

The raptured soul by intermingling glance Of mutual bliss; sweet amid roseate bowers,

Led by the hand of love, to weave the dance, Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers, Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm, unclouded hours.

Yet they, who light of heart in May-day pride,

Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous

song,

(Though he their softest pleasures may provide,

Even then when pleasures in full concert throng)

They cannot know with what enchantment

strong

He steals upon the tender suffering soul, What gently soothing chains to him belong, How melting sorrow owns his soft control, Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves to roll.

When vexed by cares, and harassed by distress,

The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,

Let love, consoling love! still sweetly bless, And his assuasive balm benignly shed; His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread, Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose; To love the tender heart hath ever fled, As on its mother's breast the infant throws Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets

its woes.

TIGHE.

LOVE'S POWER.

Love in my bosom, like a bee

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amid my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast;

And yet he robs me of my rest.

Strike I my lute-he tunes the string, He music plays if I do sing;

He lends me every living thing,

Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting.

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod;

He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
O, Cupid, so thou pity me,

I will not wish to part from thee.

LODGE.

A YEAR AGO.

A YEAR ago, a year ago,

I thought my heart so cold and still, That Love it never more could know :

That withering Time, and Sorrow's chill, Had frozen all its earlier glow;

A year ago, a year ago,

I said "I ne'er shall love again "-
But I had not seen Thee then!

A year ago, a year ago,

My soul was wrapt in grief and gloom,
And sighs would swell, and tears would flow,
As, bending o'er the lost one's tomb,
I thought of her who slept below!
A year ago, a year ago,

I felt I ne'er could love again—
But I had not known Thee then!

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