Chapter 1

This etext was prepared by Dennis Schreiner, [email protected]

The Home Book of Verse, Volume 2

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

Contents of Volume I of the two volume set are in our Volume 1 This includes contents of Volumes 1 through 4 of our Etext editions.

PART II

POEMS OF LOVE

EROS

The sense of the world is short, - Long and various the report, - To love and be beloved; Men and gods have not outlearned it; And, how oft soe'er they've turned it, 'Tis not to be improved.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

"NOW WHAT IS LOVE"

"NOW WHAT IS LOVE"

Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell? It is that fountain and that well Where pleasure and repentance dwell; It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell That tolls all into heaven or hell; And this is Love, as I hear tell.

Yet what is Love, I prithee, say? It is a work on holiday, It is December matched with May, When lusty bloods in fresh array Hear ten months after of the play; And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain? It is a sunshine mixed with rain, It is a toothache or like pain, It is a game where none hath gain; The lass saith no, yet would full fain; And this is Love, as I hear sain.

Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray? It is a yes, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray, It is a thing will soon away. Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may; And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for moe, And he that proves shall find it so; And shepherd, this is Love, I trow.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

WOOING SONG From "Christ's Victory"

Love is the blossom where there blows Every thing that lives or grows: Love doth make the Heavens to move, And the Sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak, Under whose shadows lions wild, Softened by love, grow tame and mild: Love no medicine can appease, He burns fishes in the seas: Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench. Love did make the bloody spear Once a leavy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow; And of all the virgin rose That as bright Aurora shows; How they all unleaved die, Losing their virginity! Like unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade. Every thing doth pass away; There is danger in delay: Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose! All the sand of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore: All the valleys' swimming corn To my house is yearly borne: Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my train have bowed, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me: All the stars in Heaven that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

Giles Fletcher [1549?-1611]

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL From "Rosalind"

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 amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleeps, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence. I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in; I'll make you fast it for your sin; I'll count your power not worth a pin. - Alas! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me?

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; Then let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee; O Cupid, so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee!

Thomas Lodge [1558?-1625]

SONG From "Hymen's Triumph"

Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries - Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries - Heigh ho!

Samuel Daniel [1562-1619]

LOVE'S PERJURIES From "Love's Labor's Lost"

On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wished himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee: Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

VENUS' RUNAWAY From "The Hue and Cry After Cupid"

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.

She that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kiss, How or where herself would wish: But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another.

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 centre to the sky, Are his trophies reared high.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip, Over liver, lights, and heart, But not stay in any part; But if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself in kisses.

He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts; where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuel. When his days are to be cruel, Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood: Naught but wounds his hands doth season, And he hates none like to Reason.

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 [1573?-1637]

WHAT IS LOVE? From "The Captain"

Tell me, dearest, what is love? 'Tis a lightning from above; 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 'Tis a boy they call Desire. 'Tis a grave, Gapes to have Those poor fools that long to prove.

Tell me more, are women true? Yes, some are, and some as you. Some are willing, some are strange, Since you men first taught to change. And till troth Be in both, All shall love, to love anew.

Tell me more yet, can they grieve? Yes, and sicken sore, but live, And be wise, and delay, When you men are wise as they. Then I see, Faith will be Never till they both believe.

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

LOVE'S EMBLEMS From "Valentinian"

Now the lusty spring is seen; Golden yellow, gaudy blue, Daintily invite the view: Everywhere on every green Roses blushing as they blow, And enticing men to pull, Lilies whiter than the snow, Woodbines of sweet honey full: All love's emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not plucked, we die."

Yet the lusty spring hath stayed; Blushing red and purest white Daintily to love invite Every woman, every maid: Cherries kissing as they grow, And inviting men to taste, Apples even ripe below, Winding gently to the waist: All love's emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not plucked, we die."

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

THE POWER OF LOVE From "Valentinian"

Hear, ye ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples and be wise: Fair Callisto was a nun; Leda, sailing on the stream To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan; Danae, in a brazen tower, Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy, What the mighty Love can do; Fear the fierceness of the boy: The chaste Moon he makes to woo; Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires, Doting at the altar dies; Ilion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire.

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

ADVICE TO A LOVER

The sea hath many thousand sands, The sun hath motes as many; The sky is full of stars, and Love As full of woes as any: Believe me, that do know the elf, And make no trial by thyself!

It is in truth a pretty toy For babes to play withal: But O, the honies of our youth Are oft our age's gall: Self-proof in time will make thee know He was a prophet told thee so:

A prophet that, Cassandra-like, Tells truth without belief; For headstrong Youth will run his race, Although his goal be grief: - Love's Martyr, when his heat is past, Proves Care's Confessor at the last.

Unknown

LOVE'S HOROSCOPE

Love, brave Virtue's younger brother, Erst hath made my heart a mother, She consults the anxious spheres, To calculate her young son's years; She asks if sad or saving powers Gave omen to his infant hours; She asks each star that then stood by If poor Love shall live or die.

Ah, my heart! is that the way? Are these the beams that rule thy day? Thou know'st a face in whose each look Beauty lays ope Love's fortune-book, On whose fair revolutions wait The obsequious motions of Love's fate. Ah, my heart! her eyes and she Have taught thee new astrology. Howe'er Love's native hours were set, Whatever starry synod met, 'Tis in the mercy of her eye, If poor Love shall live or die.

If those sharp rays, putting on Points of death, bid Love be gone; - Though the heavens in council sate To crown an uncontrolled fate; Though their best aspects twined upon The kindest constellation, Cast amorous glances on its birth, And whispered the confederate earth To pave his paths with all the good That warms the bed of youth and blood: - Love has no plea against her eye; Beauty frowns, and Love must die.

But if her milder influence move, And gild the hopes of humble Love; - Though heaven's inauspicious eye Lay black on Love's nativity; Though every diamond in Jove's crown Fixed his forehead to a frown; - Her eye a strong appeal can give, Beauty smiles, and Love shall live.

O, if Love shall live, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live.

Or, if Love shall die, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his funeral nest? While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die!

Richard Crashaw [1613?-1649]

"AH, HOW SWEET IT IS TO LOVE!" From "Tyrannic Love"

Ah, how sweet it is to love! Ah, how gay is young Desire! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire! Pains of Love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart: Even the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart: Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again: If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

John Dryden [1631-1700]

SONG

Love still has something of the sea, From whence his Mother rose; No time his slaves from doubt can free, Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalmed in clearest days, And in rough weather tossed; They wither under cold delays, Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port, Then straight into the main Some angry wind, in cruel sport, The vessel drives again.

At first Disdain and Pride they fear, Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joy they come, And are so long withstood, So slowly they receive the sum, It hardly does them good.

'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; And to defer a joy, Believe me, gentle Celemene, Offends the winged boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears, Perhaps, would not remove; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love.

Charles Sedley [1639?-1710]

THE VINE From "Sunday Up the River"

The wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long:

Sits long and arises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.

James Thomson [1834-1882]

SONG

Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charmed me, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harmed me: Yet when this thought doth come, - Love is the perfect sum Of all delight. I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write.

O love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee.

Unknown

CUPID STUNG

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee. The bee awaked - with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; "Oh Mother! I am wounded through - I die with pain - in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing - A bee it was - for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so." Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, "My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

CUPID DROWNED

T'other day, as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, 'mid the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, Love, himself! By the wings I picked him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, Then what d'ye think I did? - I drank him. Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with ten-fold glee; And now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

SONG From "The Heir of Vironi"

Oh! say not woman's love is bought With vain and empty treasure. Oh! say not woman's heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Love's flame, it wanders never; Deep in her heart the passion glows, She loves, and loves for ever.

Oh! say not woman's false as fair, That, like the bee, she ranges, Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes. Ah no! the love that first can warm Will leave her bosom never; No second passion e'er can charm, She loves, and loves for ever.

Isaac Pocock [1782-1835]

"IN THE DAYS OF OLD" From "Crotchet Castle"

In the days of old Lovers felt true passion, Deeming years of sorrow By a smile repaid: Now the charms of gold, Spells of pride and fashion, Bid them say Good-morrow To the best-loved Maid.

Through the forests wild, O'er the mountains lonely, They were never weary Honor to pursue: If the damsel smiled Once in seven years only, All their wanderings dreary Ample guerdon knew.

Now one day's caprice Weighs down years of smiling, Youthful hearts are rovers, Love is bought and sold. Fortune's gifts may cease, Love is less beguiling: Wiser were the lovers In the days of old.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]

SONG

How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at Love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying!

Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; Other smiles may make you fickle, Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Just as fate or fancy carries; Longest stays, when sorest chidden; Laughs and flies, when pressed and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odor to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind Love to last forever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel: Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging, Or the ringdove's neck from changing? No! nor fettered Love from dying In the knot there's no untying.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

STANZAS

Could Love for ever Run like a river, And Time's endeavor Be tried in vain - No other pleasure With this could measure, And like a treasure We'd hug the chain. But since our sighing Ends not in dying, And, formed for flying, Love plumes his wing; Then for this reason Let's love a season; But let that season Be only Spring.

When lovers parted Feel broken-hearted, And, all hopes thwarted, Expect to die; A few years older, Ah! how much colder They might behold her For whom they sigh! When linked together, In every weather, They pluck Love's feather From out his wing - He'll stay for ever, But sadly shiver Without his plumage, When past the Spring.

Like Chiefs of Faction, His life is action - A formal paction That curbs his reign, Obscures his glory, Despot no more, he Such territory Quits with disdain. Still, still advancing, With banners glancing, His power enhancing, He must move on - Repose but cloys him, Retreat destroys him, Love brooks not a Degraded throne.

Wait not, fond lover! Till years are over, And then recover, As from a dream. While each bewailing The other's failing, With wrath and railing, All hideous seem - While first decreasing, Yet not quite ceasing, Wait not till teasing All passion blight: If once diminished Love's reign is finished - Then part in friendship, - And bid good-night.

So shall Affection To recollection The dear connection Bring back with joy: You had not waited Till, tired or hated, Your passions sated Began to cloy. Your last embraces Leave no cold traces - The same fond faces As through the past; And eyes, the mirrors Of your sweet errors, Reflect but rapture - Not least though last.

True, separations Ask more than patience; What desperations From such have risen! But yet remaining, What is't but chaining Hearts which, once waning, Beat 'gainst their prison? Time can but cloy love, And use destroy love: The winged boy, Love, Is but for boys - You'll find it torture Though sharper, shorter, To wean and not Wear out your joys.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"THEY SPEAK O' WILES"

They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles, An' ruin in her ee; I ken they bring a pang at whiles That's unco' sair to dree;

But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss, The first fond fa'in' tear, Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amends, An' tints o' heaven here.

When two leal hearts in fondness meet, Life's tempests howl in vain; The very tears o' love are sweet When paid with tears again.

Shall hapless prudence shake its pow? Shall cauldrife caution fear? Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe That lights a heaven here!

William Thom [1798?-1848]

"LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY"

Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves, Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie, Where there is no space For receipt of a fly, Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay, If Love come, he will enter, And find out the way.

You may esteem him A child for his might, Or you may deem him A coward from his flight: But if she whom Love doth honor Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him, By having him confined, And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind Love, if so ye call him, Will find out the way.

You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist, Or you may inveigle The phoenix of the east; The tiger, ye may move her To give over her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover - He will find out the way.

Unknown

A WOMAN'S SHORTCOMINGS

She has laughed as softly as if she sighed, She has counted six, and over, Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried - Oh, each a worthy lover! They "give her time"; for her soul must slip Where the world has set the grooving; She will lie to none with her fair red lip: But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb, As her thoughts were beyond recalling; With a glance for one, and a glance for some, From her eyelids rising and falling; Speaks common words with a blushful air, Hears bold words, unreproving; But her silence says - what she never will swear - And love seeks better loving.

Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar, And drop a smile to the bringer; Then smile as sweetly, when he is far, At the voice of an in-door singer. Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes; Glance lightly, on their removing; And join new vows to old perjuries - But dare not call it loving!

Unless you can think, when the song is done, No other is soft in the rhythm; Unless you can feel, when left by One, That all men else go with him; Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath, That your beauty itself wants proving; Unless you can swear "For life, for death!" - Oh, fear to call it loving!

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving; Unless you can die when the dream is past - Oh, never call it loving!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

"LOVE HATH A LANGUAGE" From "To My Son"

Love hath a language for all years - Fond hieroglyphs, obscure and old - Wherein the heart reads, writ in tears, The tale which never yet was told.

Love hath his meter too, to trace Those bounds which never yet were given, - To measure that which mocks at space, Is deep as death, and high as heaven.

Love hath his treasure hoards, to pay True faith, or goodly service done, - Dear priceless nothings, which outweigh All riches that the sun shines on.

Helen Selina Sheridan [1807-1867]

SONG From "Maud"

O, let the solid ground, Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet; Then let come what come may, What matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day.

Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me Before I am quite quite sure That there is one to love me! Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, I shall have had my day.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

AMATURUS