Part 2
So dead he is, who once was so alive! In summer, when the ardent days were long, He was as warm as June, as gay and glad As any bird that swelled its throat with song.
So dead!—yet all things were his ministers— All birds and blossoms, and the joyous June! Would they had died, and kept sweet Love alive; Since he is gone the world is out of tune.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
When blushing cheeks and downcast eyes Set all the heart aflame, When love within a dimple lies And constancy’s a name, Since every lass is passing fair, Cupid must fly and see; And, lightly flitting here and there, A wingèd boy is he.
When creeping years steal on apace And youth and vigor go, When time with wrinkles marks the face And strews the hair with snow, Ah, then no wingèd boy is he; But strong-limbed and complete, With blinded eyes that need not see, Since memory guides his feet.
WALTER LEARNED.
CUPID’S ARROW
Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow. “’Tis useless!” he cried, “you must mend it, I say, ’Tisn’t fit to let fly at a sparrow. There’s something that’s wrong in the shaft, or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim, ’Tis an age since it fairly went home to a heart, And the world really jests at my name.
“I have straightened, I’ve bent, I’ve tried all, I declare, I’ve perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; ’Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; But it falls without touching—I’ll break it, I vow, For there’s Hymen beginning to pout, He’s complaining his torch beam’s so dull and so low, That Zephyr might puff it right out.”
Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored. “There, take it, young sir, try it now. If it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward!” The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made, The wounded and dead were untold, But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with gold.
ELIZA COOK.
CUPID PLAGUE THEE FOR THY TREASON
Now I see thy looks were feigned, Quickly lost, and quickly gained; Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, Heart inconstant, light as feathers, Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted, Wanton will with change delighted. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Of thine eye I made my mirror, From thy beauty came my error, All thy words I counted witty, All thy sighs I deemed pity, Thy false tears that me aggrieved, First of all my trust deceived. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Feigned acceptance when I asked, Lovely words with cunning masked, Holy vows, but heart unholy; Wretched man, my trust was folly; Lily white, and pretty winking, Solemn vows but sorry thinking. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Now I see, O seemly cruel, Others warm them at my fuel, Wit shall guide me in this durance Since in love is no assurance: Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, Beauty is a fading treasure. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Prime youth lasts not, age will follow And make white those tresses yellow, Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint the dame despiteful. And when time shall date thy glory, Then too late thou wilt be sorry. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
THOMAS LODGE.
YOUNG LOVE’S A GALLANT BOY
When Love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him, And back he vowed his flight he’d wing To Heaven, if she should leave him.
But Spring departing, saw his faith Pledged to the next new-comer— He revelled in the warmer breath And richer bowers of Summer.
Then sportive Autumn claimed by rights An Archer for her lover, And even in Winter’s dark cold nights A charm he could discover.
Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, For this time were his reasons— In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say? He is Venus’ runaway.
He hath marks about him plenty: You shall know him among twenty. All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
At his sight the sun hath turned, Neptune in the waters burned; Hell hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook his seat. From the center to the sky Are his trophies rearèd high.
Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. All his practice is deceit; Every gift it is a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears; And most treason in his tears.
Idle minutes are his reign; Then the straggler makes his gain By presenting maids with toys, And would have ye think them joys; ’Tis the ambition of the elf To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him, Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, ye’ll not abide him; Since you hear his falser play, And that he’s Venus’ runaway.
BEN JONSON.
BEWARE THE ROGUE
Deep in the shadow of her hazel eyes, Waiting to capture men, Love lurking lies. Her glances are the arrows of his bow, Wherewith he lays unwary victims low; And she, unused to Cupid’s artful wiles, Unconscious aids his purpose by her smiles, And knows not, as her smiles and glances dart, What anguish these may bring to many a heart.
Ah! hapless maiden, innocently gay, No presage of the future breeds dismay; She does not know how soon the treacherous guest Will make her heart the haven of unrest. Ungrateful Cupid! Soon from her he’ll fly, And seek a refuge in some lover’s eye, Then from that point of vantage aim a dart To pierce and agonize her maiden heart.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
THE FAIR THIEF
Before the urchin well could go She stole the whiteness of the snow, And more that whiteness to adorn She stole the blushes of the morn; Stole all the sweets that either sheds On primrose buds or violet beds.
Still, to reveal her artful wiles, She stole the Graces’ silken smiles: She stole Aurora’s balmy breath, And pilfered orient pearl for teeth: The cherry, dipt in morning dew, Gave moisture to her lips and hue.
These were her infant spoils, a store To which in time she added more: At twelve she stole from Cyprus’ queen Her air and love-commanding mien; Stole Juno’s dignity, and stole From Pallas sense to charm the soul.
Apollo’s wit was next her prey; Her next, the beam that lights the day. She sung: amazed the Sirens heard, And to assert their voice appeared: She played: the Muses from the hill Wondered who thus had stol’n their skill.
Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And t’other day she stole my heart! If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this Fair; To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms.
CHARLES WYNDHAM.
LOVE AND THE WITCHES
It was a little, fearful maid, Whose mother left her all alone; Her door with iron bolt she stayed, And ’gainst it rolled a lucky stone— For many a night she’d waked with fright when witches by the house had flown.
To piping lute in still midnight, Who comes a-singing at the door,— That showeth seams of golden light,— “Ah, open, darling, I implore”? She could not help knowing ’twas Love, although they’d never met before.
She swiftly shot the iron bar, And rolled the lucky stone away, And careful set the door ajar— “Now enter in, Sir Love, I pray; My mother knows it not, but I have watched for you this many a day.”
With fan and roar of gloomy wings They gave the door a windy shove; They perched on chairs and brooms and things; Like bats they beat around above— Poor little maid, she’d let the witches in with Love.
MARY E. WILKINS.
LOVE AND DREAM
Cupid, wandering one May-day, Met with loitering Death by chance; No aged carl as many say, But young as he, as fair and gay, As fond of boyish sport or dance.
“Come, wrestle,” and, so saying, Love, Loos’ning the quiver at his breast, Hung it upon the bough above. “These arrows,” quoth he, “when they rove, Make youth a slave at my behest.”
Among the tender-blooming leaves Death made _his_ quiver sure and fast, “_My_ arrows bring rest when age grieves,” And down unwary Love he heaves; So frolicked they till Discord passed.
She, wicked, hating merry play, Scattered their arrows on the green, And thus confused, some got astray In either quiver. Since that day Youth dies and old age dotes, I ween.
ANNA VERNON DORSEY.
CUPID LAID BY HIS BRAND
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep: A maid of Dian’s this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground; Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love A dateless lively heat, still to endure, And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied, a sad distempered guest, But found no cure; the bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire—my mistress’ eyes.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
Before me careless lying, Young Love his ware comes crying; Full soon the elf untreasures His pack of pains and pleasures,— With roguish eye He bids me buy From out his pack of treasures.
His wallet’s stuffed with blisses, With true-love-knots and kisses, With rings and rosy fetters, And sugared vows and letters;— He holds them out With boyish flout, And bids me try the fetters.
Nay, Child (I cry), I know them; There’s little need to show them! Too well for new believing I know their past deceiving,— I am too old (I say), and cold, To-day, for new believing!
But still the wanton presses, With honey-sweet caresses, And still, to my undoing, He wins me, with his wooing, To buy his wares With all their cares, Their sorrow and undoing!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
LOVE’S REWARD
For Love I labored all the day, Through morning chill and midday heat. For surely with the evening gray, I thought, Love’s guerdon shall be sweet.
At eventide, with weary limb, I brought my labors to the spot Where Love had bid me come to him; Thither I came, but found him not.
For he with idle folk had gone To dance the hours of night away; And I that toiled was left alone, Too weary now to dance or play.
FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON.
THE LOVE THAT IS REQUITED WITH DISDAIN
In search of things that secret are my mated muse began, What it might be molested most the head and mind of man; The bending brow of prince’s face, to wrath that doth attend, Or want of parents, wife, or child, or loss of faithful friend; The roaring of the cannon shot, that makes the piece to shake, Or terror, such as mighty Jove from heaven above can make: All these in fine, may not compare, experience so doth prove, Unto the torments, sharp and strange, of such as be in love. Love looks aloft, and laughs to scorn all such as griefs annoy, The more extreme their passions be, the greater is his joy, Thus Love, as victor of the field, triumphs above the rest, And joys to see his subjects lie with living death in breast; But dire Disdain lets drive a shaft, and galls this bragging fool, He plucks his plumes, unbends his bow, and sets him new to school; Whereby this boy that bragged late, as conqueror over all, Now yields himself unto Disdain, his vassal and his thrall.
WILLIAM HUNNIS.
CUPID RELIEVED
As once young Cupid went astray, The little god I found; I took his bow and shafts away, And fast his pinions bound.
At Chloe’s feet my spoils I cast, My conquest proud to shew; She saw his godship fettered fast And smiled to see him so.
But ah! that smile such fresh supplies Of arms resistless gave! I’m forced again to yield my prize, And fall again his slave.
SOAME JENYNS.
LOVE BANISHED HEAVEN
Love banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn, Wand’ring abroad in need and beggary; And wanting friends, though of a goddess born, Yet craved the alms of such as passèd by: I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothed the naked, lodged this wand’ring guest, With sighs and tears still furnishing his table, With what might make the miserable blest; But this ungrateful, for my good desert, Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent to steal away my heart, And set my breast his lodging on a fire. Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel then though charity grow cold.
MICHAEL DRAYTON.
_A piece of Sculpture_
I watched as they stood before it,— A girl with a face as fair As any among the marbles, So cold in their whiteness there;
And a youth in whose glance, entreaty Each lineament seemed to stir, She only had eyes for the sculpture; He only had eyes for her.
And poising in critic-fashion The delicate upturned head, “Was ever so sweet a beggar?” With sudden appeal, she said.
“Just look at the innocent archness, The simple and childish grace, Half mirthful and half pathetic, That dimples his pleading face.
“Whoever could think that mischief Was hidden in such a guise? Or even that rosy sorrows Lurk in those lambent eyes?
“_Deny him?_ Perhaps! though never With hardness or scorn or blame; For I think I should sob with pity, If that were the way he came.”
She turned as she spoke: the glamour Of feeling had made her blind To the trick of the stealthy arrow The Cupid concealed behind:
“Ah, ha!” she cried, while the color Rubied her neck of snow— “You plausible, wheedling beggar! I have nothing to give you,—Go!”
MARGARET J. PRESTON.
LOVE! IF A GOD THOU ART
Love! if a god thou art, Then evermore thou must Be merciful and just; If thou be just, O wherefore doth thy dart Wound mine alone, and not my lady’s heart? If merciful, then why Am I to pain reserved, Who have thee truly served, While she, that by thy power fits not afly, Laughs thee to scorn, and lives at liberty? Then, if a god thou wilt accounted be, Heal me like her, or else wound her like me.
FRANCIS DAVISON.
LOVE’S GOING
Love lies a-sleeping; maiden, softly sing, Lest he should waken; pluck the falling rose A-brushing ’gainst his cheek, her glowing heart Ope’d to the sun’s hot kisses—foolish thing, To list the tale oft told!—but summer goes, And all the roses’ petals fall apart.
Love lies a-sleeping; let the curtains part So that the breeze may lightly to him sing A lullaby—the changeful breeze that goes A-whispering through the grass, where’er it rose, Where’er it listeth bound, a wilful thing, Low murmuring sweets from an inconstant heart.
Love lies a-sleeping: press the pulsing heart That beats against thy bosom: stand apart And stay thine eager breath, lest anything Should mar his rest—the songs that lovers sing, The tale the butterfly tells to the rose, The low wind to the grass, and onward goes.
Love lies a-sleeping: ah, how swiftly goes The sweet delusion he hath taught thy heart, Fair maiden, pressing to thy breast the rose, Whose fun-kissed petals sadly fall apart, With thy quick breath! Thy rhyme wouldst hear him sing Which yesterday seemed such a foolish thing?
Love lies a-sleeping: nay, for such a thing Break not his slumber. See how sweetly goes That smile across his lips, that will not sing For very wilfulness. Love hath no heart! If he should wake, these red-ripe lips would part In laughter low to see this ravished rose.
Love lies a-sleeping: so the full-blown rose Falls to the earth a dead unpitied thing; The grasses ’neath the breeze deep-sighing part And sway; and as thy warm breath comes and goes In motion with the red tides of thy heart, The song is hushed which Love was wont to sing.
Love lies a-sleeping: thus in dreams he goes; Strive not to waken him, but tell thy heart. “Love lies a-sleeping, and he may not sing.”
CHARLES W. COLEMAN, JUN.
CUPID’S ARROWS
Phœbe, wandering in a wood, Chanced to spy Dan Cupid sleeping; Long the curious maiden stood Tiptoe, through the branches peeping. For the youngster’s lips she yearned, Till, the branches parting slyly, She to slake her thirst that burned Stooped and kissed the rogue’s mouth shyly.
Now the boy’s eyes open wide, And upon the maid he gazes, Grasps an arrow at his side, And his silver bow upraises. Swift the maiden turns to flee; Swift the arrow follows after, Wounding in its flight a tree: Hark! how rings the maid’s clear laughter.
Cupid, with sleep-dazzled eyes, Stares a moment through the bushes Where the laughing maid still flies, Then adown the wood he rushes. Now the shaft o’ertakes the quarry, Now it cleaves poor Phœbe’s heart— Maidens, ere you wake Love, tarry First to filch his every dart.
JAMES B. KENYON.
Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit As unconcerned, as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure nor no pain.
When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay, Like metals in the mine: Age from no face took more away, Than youth concealed in thine.
But as your charms insensibly To their perfection pressed, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest.
My passion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still, as his mother favored you, Threw a new flaming dart.
Each gloried in their wanton part: To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art— To make a beauty, she.
Though now I slowly bend to love, Uncertain of my fate, If your fair self my chains approve, I shall my freedom hate.
Lovers, like dying men, may well At first disordered be; Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see.
SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.
LOVE’S QUALITIES
Is Love a boy—what means he then to strike? Or is he blind,—why will he be a guide? Is he a man,—why doth he hurt his like? Is he a god,—why doth he men deride? No one of these, but one compact of all: A wilful boy, a man still dealing blows, Of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall: A god that rules unruly—God, he knows.
Boy! pity me that am a child again; Blind, be no more my guide to make me stray: Man! use thy might to force away my pain; God! do me good and lead me to my way; And if thou beest a power to me unknown, Power of my life! let here thy grace be shown.
BYRD’S SET SONGS.
BALLADE OF THE ROSE
Tell me, red rose, what you were bid— You know her secret; you she wore Shy, nestling in her hair, half hid By jealous golden curls a score, As waves half timid kiss the shore, Then tremble were they bold or no; I kiss you, blushing token, for She loves me—rose, you tell me so.
I softly raise your scented lid, Where, sleeping since some dawn of yore, A crystal dewdrop lies amid The downy crimson of your core. I am not versed in Cupid’s lore; But so I think her blushing glow Soft guards the love I sue her for. She loves me—rose, you tell me so.
And when her hand, in dainty kid, Gave you to me, as n’er before It fluttered, tried itself to rid Of fetters that it never wore, Why trembled she? My eyes would pour My love in hers—why did she so? Was it because she hates me, or— She loves me—rose, you tell me so.
L’ENVOY
Rose, come you not ambassador From Cupid’s court to let me know Love yields at last? Speak, I implore! She loves me—rose, you tell me so.
H. C. FAULKNER.
AN AWAKENING
Love had forgotten and gone to sleep; Love had forgotten the present and past. I was so glad when he ceased to weep; “Now he is quiet,” I whispered, “at last.”
What sent you here on that night of all nights, Breaking his slumber, dreamless and deep, Just as I whispered below my breath, “Love has forgotten and gone to sleep”?
ANNE REEVE ALDRICH.
LOVE AND A COMPASS
To the north of her mouth, east and west of her eyes, By the curls of her tresses half hidden, Two ears, of the tiniest, daintiest size, Are kissed by the breezes unbidden.
And right to the north of each exquisite cheek Lie her eyes, of a brilliancy tender. Their color I know not, but in them I seek Some sign of approaching surrender.
Due north of the dimple that hides in her chin, Two lips conceal music behind them; And when a smile plays on them, Cupids begin To break from the bonds that confine them.
Just south of her chin stands a full-rounded throat, Whose whiteness than marble is whiter; Southeast and southwest of it, shoulders I note— No curves are more graceful, or lighter.
In the south of her bosom, a bit to the west, Is the greatest of all of her beauties: My loadstar’s the heart that is hid in her breast; To obey it’s my sweetest of duties.
S. D. SMITH, JR.
Ring out your bells! let mourning shows be spread! For Love is dead. All love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as naught worth, rejected, And faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female phrenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord! deliver us.
Weep, neighbours! weep: do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed peacock’s folly, His winding-sheet is shame, His will false seeming holy, His sole executor blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female phrenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord! deliver us.