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THEY sin who tell us love can die,
All others are but vanity.
But Love is indestructible,
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
It soweth here with toil and care,
The babe she lost in infancy,
all her tears, An over-payment of delight.
'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.
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
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,
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
They cannot know with what enchantment
strong He steals upon the tender suffering soul, What gently soothing chains to bim belong,
How melting sorrow owns his soft control, Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves
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
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,
Strike I my lute–he tunes the string,
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod;
Because a god.