Part 3
Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read! For Love is dead. Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth, My Mistress’ marble heart; Which epitaph containeth— “Her eyes were once his dart.” From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female phrenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord! deliver us.
Alas! I lie: rage hath this error bred: Love is not dead. Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth Till due deserts she find. Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a phrenzy Who love can temper thus, Good Lord! deliver us.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
WILY CUPID
Trust not his wanton tears, Lest they beguile ye; Trust not his childish sigh, He breatheth slily. Trust not his touch, His feeling may defile ye; Trust nothing that he doth, The wag is wily. If you suffer him to prate, You will rue it over-late. Beware of him, for he is witty: Quickly strive the boy to bind, Fear him not, for he is blind, If he get loose, he shows no pity.
HENRY CHETTLE.
THE BURIAL OF LOVE
_Maiden’s hearts are always soft;_ _Would that men’s were truer!_
SONG.
Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, Sat where a river rolled away, With calm, sad brows and raven hair, And one was pale and both were fair.
Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown, Bring forest-blooms of name unknown; Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, To strew the bier of Love, the child.
Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, His eyes, that death may seem like sleep, And fold his hands in sign of rest, His waxen hands, across his breast.
And make his grave where violets hide, Where star-flowers strew the rivulet’s side, And bluebirds in the misty spring Of cloudless skies and summer sing.
Place near him, as ye lay him low, His idle shafts, his loosened bow, The silken fillet that around His waggish eyes in sport he wound.
But we shall mourn him long, and miss His ready smile, his ready kiss, The patter of his little feet, Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet;
And graver looks, serene and high, A light of heaven in that young eye, All these shall haunt us till the heart Shall ache and ache—and tears will start.
The bow, the band shall fall to dust, The mining arrows waste with rust, And all of Love that earth can claim Be but a memory and a name.
Not thus his nobler part shall dwell A prisoner in this narrow cell; But he whom now we hide from men In the dark ground, shall live again:
Shall break these clods, a form of light, With nobler mien and purer sight, And in the eternal glory stand, Highest and nearest God’s right hand.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
CUPID SWALLOWED
T’other day, as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, midst the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor—Love himself! By the wings I pinch’d him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him; And what d’ye think I did?—I drank him! Faith! I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with tenfold glee; And now this moment, with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings.
LEIGH HUNT.
Love has a fillet on his eyes; He sees not with the eyes of men; Whom his fine issues touch despise The censures of indifferent men. There is in love an inward sight, That nor in wit nor wisdom lies; He walks in everlasting light, Despite the fillet on his eyes.
If I love you, and you love me, ’Tis for substantial reasons, sweet— For something other than we see, That satisfies, though incomplete; Or, if not satisfies, is yet Not mutable, where so much dies: Who love, as we, do not regret There is a fillet on Love’s eyes!
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
THE ARCHERY MATCH
She fits the arrow to its place, She bends the bow with skill and grace, The feathered shaft lets fly; A look of triumph lights her face— The score’s a tie!
Dan Cupid, who’s a bowman true, Then boldly tries what he can do To bind the tie fore’er; Result: the world declares the two A well-matched pair!
ARTHUR GRISSOM.
THE BURIAL OF LOVE
His eyes in eclipse, Pale-cold his lips, The light of his hopes unfed, Mute his tongue, His bow unstrung With the tears he hath shed, Backward drooping his graceful head, Love is dead: His last arrow is sped; He hath not another dart; Go—carry him to his dark deathbed; Bury him in the cold, cold heart— Love is dead.
Oh, truest Love! art thou forlorn, And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? Shall hollow-hearted Apathy, The cruellest form of perfect scorn With languor of most hateful smiles, Forever write, In the withered light Of the tearless eye, An epitaph that all may spy? No! sooner she herself shall die.
For her the showers shall not fall Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all; Her light shall into darkness change; For her the green grass shall not spring, Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing, Till Love have his full revenge.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
SONG
Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue; Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest love on you revenge their pain; You are not free because you’re fair, The boy did not his mother spare: Though beauty be a killing dart, It is no armour for the heart.
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.
LOVE AND MISCHIEF
One sunny day Love chose to stray Adown a rosy path forbidden, Where Mischief deep in ambush lay, And watched his snare ’neath flowers hidden: Love tumbling in, began to shout For Mischief’s aid, lest he should smother: “You little demon, let me out, Or I’ll report you to my mother.” Said Mischief, “I’ll not set you free Unless you share your power with me, And give of every heart you gain, One-half to joy and half to pain.”
Love struggled, but in vain, alas! He was not born to prove a martyr, And, sad to tell! it came to pass He gave in to the little Tartar. Love flew to Venus in a pet, And cried, when he had told his story: “O, Queen of Beauty, never let That little imp wear half my glory.” The goddess with a look sedate, Replied, “I cannot alter fate, But you shall conquer still, my boy, I’ll make love’s pain more sweet than joy.”
ZAVARR WILMSHURST.
The sun was now withdrawn, The shepherds home were sped; The moon wide o’er the lawn Her silver mantle spread; When Damon stayed behind, And sauntered in the grove: “Will ne’er a nymph be kind, And give me love for love?
“O! those were golden hours, When Love, devoid of cares, In all Arcadia’s bowers Lodged nymphs and swains by pairs; But now from wood and plain Flies every sprightly lass; No joys for me remain, In shades, or on the grass.”
The wingèd boy draws near, And thus the swain reproves: “While Beauty revelled here, My game lay in the groves; At court I never fail To scatter round my arrows: Men fall as thick as hail, And maidens love like sparrows.
“Then, swain, if me you need, Straight lay your sheep-hook down; Throw by your oaten reed, And haste away to town. So well I’m known at court, None ask where Cupid dwells: But readily resort To Bellendens or Lepels.”
JOHN GAY.
CUPID AND CAMPASPE
Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother’s doves and team of sparrows; Loses them, too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on ’s cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin— All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas, become of me!
JOHN LYLY.
LOVE FOR LOVE
Away with these self-loving lads Whom Cupid’s arrow never glads! Away poor souls that sigh and weep, In love of those that lie asleep! For Cupid is a meadow god, And forceth none to kiss the rod.
Sweet Cupid’s shafts, like destiny, Do causeless good or ill decree; Desert is borne out of his bow, Reward upon his wing doth go! What fools are they that have not known That Love likes no laws but his own.
My songs they be of Cynthia’s praise, I wear her rings on holy-days, In every tree I write her name, And every day I read the same. Where Honour Cupid’s rival is, There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me, I blot her name out of the tree; If doubt do darken things held dear, Then well-fare nothing, once a year; For many run, but one must win, Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.
The worth that worthiness should move, Is Love, that is the bow of Love; And love as well the foster can, As can the mighty noble-man:— Sweet saint, ’tis true, you worthy be, Yet, without love, nought worth to me.
FULKE GREVILLE.
A KISS
You ask me what’s a kiss? ’Tis Cupid’s keenest arrow! A thing to take a “miss”— (You ask me what’s a kiss?) The brink of an abyss! A lover’s pathway, narrow. You ask me what’s a _kiss_? ’Tis Cupid’s _keenest_ arrow!
CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS.
THE DILEMMA
Now, by the blessed Paphian queen, Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen; By every name I cut on bark Before my morning star grew dark; By Hymen’s torch, by Cupid’s dart, By all that thrills the beating heart; The bright black eye, the melting blue— I cannot choose between the two.
I had a vision in my dreams;— I saw a row of twenty beams; From every beam a rope was hung, In every rope a lover swung; I asked the hue of every eye That bade each luckless lover die; Ten shadowy lips said heavenly blue, And ten accused the darker hue.
I asked a matron which she deemed With fairest light of beauty beamed; She answered, some thought both were fair— Give her blue eyes and golden hair. I might have liked her judgment well, But, as she spoke, she rung the bell, And all her girls, nor small nor few, Came marching in—their eyes were blue.
I asked a maiden; back she flung The locks that round her forehead hung, And turned her eye, a glorious one, Bright as a diamond in the sun, On me, until beneath its rays I felt as if my hair would blaze; She liked all eyes but eyes of green; She looked at me, what could she mean?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between, Nor heeds the coloring of his screen; And when his random arrows fly, The victim falls, but knows not why. Gaze not upon his shield of jet, The shaft upon the firing is set; Look not beneath his azure veil, Though every limb was cased in mail.
Well both might make a martyr break The chain that bound him to the stake; And both with but a single ray Can melt our very hearts away; And both, when balanced, hardly seem To stir the scales, or rock the beam; But that is dearest, all the while, That wears for us the sweetest smile.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
LOVE PENITENT
Paint me, Love, not, as of old, Like a reveler overbold— Roses dropping from his hair, Wings that rise from either shoulder Like a flame and fan the air— Love is sadder grown and older, Plays no more with bow and arrows, Scarce has heart to feed his sparrows.
Paint him like a penitent, Wan with keeping year-long Lent, Worn with watching, faint with prayer, Dust, not roses, in his hair. Give him, for his bow and quiver, At his belt a pair of beads; If the cold air make him shiver, Give him sackcloth for his needs. Lingering farewells, merry meetings, Stolen looks and fancy greetings, Dance and song and revel gay, He must put them all away.
Bid him with his naked feet Trample out his torch’s flame, Turn from wine and dainty meat, All his wandering fancies tame: Only, lest we quite forget him— We that used to spoil and pet him— Grant him through his penance sad But one gift his childhood had— Neither torch nor shaft nor bow, But the smile we used to know.
HENRY JOHNSTONE.