TO FANNY. WELCOME, Welcome, do I sing, He that to your voice is near, He that looks still on your eyes, Shall not want the summer's sun. He that still may see your cheeks, Other lilies, other roses. He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields, Never, never shall be missing. He that question would anew And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, do I sing, LANSDOWNE MS. NO. 777. LOVE'S HOME. If thou would'st have me paint The home to which, could love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen :-A deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate! A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glassy bower Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'll sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love-that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light I' the midst of roses!-Dost thou like the picture? BULWER. A SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS. Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe; And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies, From whence I long the rosie breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss; None sees the theft that would the thief reveal, Nor rob I her of ought which she can miss: Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, There would be little sign I had done so ; Why then should I this robbery delay? Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow! Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. WITHER. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. YEAR after year unto her feet, The while she slumbereth alone, Over the purple coverlet The maiden's jet black hair hath grown, On either side her trancèd form, Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; The slumberous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. |