[Illustration]

[Illustration]




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                             In Cupid’s Court

                                EDITED BY
                           Ina Russelle Warren

                                 New York
                              R. H. Russell
                                   1900

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                              COPYRIGHT 1900
                                    BY
                          ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL




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_TO T._


    _If the world’s entirety_
    _Is two eyes that shine on me,_
    _Lay the blame at Love’s door, dearest:_
    _Thus he made my world to be._

    _He’s the key to Heaven’s gate;_
    _He’s the scorn that tramples fate;_
    _He’s the worth of living, dearest,_
    _He’s the laugh that makes Death late._

    _He’s the morning sun that wakes us_
    _To the worth of all things, dearest,_
    _He’s the influence that makes us_
    _Daily gladder, ’till God takes us!_

                                     _TOMAS BEAULING._




[Illustration: CONTENTS]


                                             PAGE

    Dedication                                vii

    Preface                                    xi

    Chant Royal of the God of Love              1

    Cupid Mistaken                              4

    Cupid Once Upon a Bed                       5

    Cupid’s Birth                               6

    Cupid at Court                              7

    Cupid                                       8

    Cupid’s Lottery                            10

    Cupid’s Curse                              11

    Love’s Flitting                            12

    Love’s Tyranny                             13

    The Triumph of Cupid                       14

    Song to Cupid                              15

    Banished Love                              16

    To Cupid for Pardon                        17

    Love’s Hunting                             18

    Love Goes A-Hawking                        19

    Love’s Blindness                           20

    Love Asleep                                21

    Dan Cupid’s Trick                          22

    Love’s Arrows                              24

    Love, the Guest                            25

    Cupid                                      26

    For Cupid Dead                             27

    At the Sign of the Blind Cupid             28

    Cupid’s Arrow                              30

    Cupid Plague Thee for Thy Treason          31

    Young Love’s a Gallant Boy                 33

    Venus’ Runaway                             34

    Beware the Rogue                           36

    The Fair Thief                             37

    Love and the Witches                       39

    Love and Dream                             40

    Cupid Laid by His Brand                    41

    A Madrigal                                 42

    Love’s Reward                              44

    The Love That is Requited With Disdain     45

    Cupid Relieved                             46

    Love Banished Heaven                       47

    The Begging Cupid                          48

    Love! If a God Thou Art                    50

    Love’s Going                               51

    Cupid’s Arrows                             53

    The Growth of Love                         54

    Love’s Qualities                           56

    Ballade of the Rose                        57

    An Awakening                               58

    Love and a Compass                         59

    Love is Dead                               60

    Wily Cupid                                 62

    The Burial of Love                         63

    Cupid Swallowed                            65

    The Fillet                                 66

    The Archery Match                          68

    The Burial of Love                         69

    Song                                       70

    Love and Mischief                          71

    Damon and Cupid                            72

    Cupid and Campaspe                         74

    Love for Love                              75

    A Kiss                                     76

    The Dilemma                                77

    Love Penitent                              79




[Illustration: PREFACE]


It will be readily apparent that the aim of this volume is to collect
the choicest poems on Cupid scattered throughout English literature. A
large harvest has been gleaned, and what my judgment counts excellent,
so far as practicable, is represented. The attitude towards Cupid has
mostly been one of obstinate resistance, but he has the element that
wins,—sometimes fantastically, sometimes pathetically. The beleaguering
little rogue never quits the field defeated,—to him no suit is hopeless.

If some of the verses are not of high value as compositions they are
all-important when considered relative to the subject, and a majority of
the poems are of unquestionable literary merit.

I beg to acknowledge the gracious favor of The Century Co., Houghton,
Mifflin & Co., Life Publishing Co., Frederick A. Stokes Co., G. P.
Putnam’s Sons, Charles Scribner’s Sons, Cassell Publishing Co., and
D. Appleton & Co., for the use of copyright poems. I also gratefully
acknowledge the eminent courtesy of individual authors for permission to
reprint.

                                                                  I. R. W.




IN CUPID’S COURT

[Illustration]




CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE


    O most fair God, O Love both new and old,
      That wast before the flowers of morning blew,
    Before the glad sun in his mail of gold
      Leapt into light across the first day’s dew;
    That art the first and last of our delight,
    That in the blue day and the purple night
      Holdest the hearts of servant and of king,
      Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,
    That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden key
        And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,
    Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

    What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold
      But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?
    Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled,
      That kissed Endymion when the spring was new,
    To thee did homage in her own despite,
    When in the shadow of her wings of white
      She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring
      To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering,
    And in that kiss put off cold chastity.
      Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,
    “Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

    Master of men and gods, in every fold
      Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew
    The labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,
      Lie hid—the quintessential charms that woo
    The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might
    Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.
      Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;
      Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling
    Their spells of healing over land and sea,
      One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,
    “Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

    I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold
      Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:
    Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,
      And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue:
    But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright,
    The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight.
      Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring;
      Terror and beauty, fear and wondering
    Meet on thy front, amazing all who see:
      All men do praise thee, ay, and everything!
    Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

    I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold
      The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,
    What while the noontide over hill and wold
      Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view
    Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight
    Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.
      Thy visage haunts me in the wavering
      Of dreams, and in the dawn, awakening,
    I feel thy splendour streaming full on me.
      Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring;
    Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

                       _ENVOY_

    _God above Gods, High and Eternal King,_
      _Whose praise, the symphonies of heaven sing,_
    _I find no whither from thy power to flee,_
      _Save in thy pinions’ vast o’ershadowing:_
    _Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!_

                                           JOHN PAYNE.




[Illustration: CUPID MISTAKEN]


    As after noon, one summer’s day,
      Venus stood bathing in a river,
    Cupid a-shooting went that way,
      New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.

    With skill he chose his sharpest dart,
      With all his might his bow he drew;
    Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart
      The too well-guided arrow flew.

    “I faint! I die!” the goddess cried;
      “O cruel, couldst thou find none other
    To wreak thy spleen on? Parricide!
      Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.”

    Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak:
      “Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye;
    Alas! how easy my mistake;
      I took you for your likeness, Cloe.”

                                        MATTHEW PRIOR.




[Illustration: CUPID ONCE UPON A BED]


    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!
    “O 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. (Odes of Anacreon.)




CUPID’S BIRTH


    At Cupid’s birth, Joy left the bounds of space,
      And, heeding not the stars, flew fast to earth,
    To hold the hearts of men in warm embrace,
      At Cupid’s birth.

    Then Life, with beaming eyes and quickened pace,
      And new-found god-like strength, first knew her worth;
    While Fate began the future to retrace.

    But Death stood gently by with quiet grace,
      Aloof from all the tumult and mad mirth,
    A sweet, sad smile lit up his steadfast face
      At Cupid’s birth.

                                          R. W. BUNNY.




CUPID AT COURT


    Young Cupid strung his bow one day,
      And sallied out for sport;
    As country hearts were easy prey,
      Odd Darts! he went to court.

    Of all that wore the puff and patch,
      Belinda led the fair:
    With falbala, and fan to match,
      I trow she made him stare!

    “Oho!” he cried, and quickly drew
      His bow upon the sly;—
    But though he pierced her bosom through,
      She never breathed a sigh!

    This was a turn, beyond a doubt,
      That filled him with amaze,
    And so he sought his mother out,
      With tear-bewildered gaze.

    “You silly boy,” Dame Venus said,
      “Why did you waste your art?
    Go clip your curls and hide your head,—
      Belinda _has_ no heart!”

                                  SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.




[Illustration: CUPID]


    Why was Cupid a boy,
      And why a boy was he?
    He should have been a girl,
      For aught that I can see.

    For he shoots with his bow,
      And the girl shoots with her eye;
    And they both are merry and glad,
      And laugh when we do cry.

    Then to make Cupid a boy
      Was surely a woman’s plan,
    For a boy never learns so much
      Till he has become a man:

    And then he’s so pierced with cares,
      And wounded with arrowy smarts,
    That the whole business of his life
      Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

                                        WILLIAM BLAKE.

[Illustration]




CUPID’S LOTTERY


    A Lottery, a Lottery,
    In Cupid’s Court there used to be;
        Two roguish eyes
        The highest prize
    In Cupid’s scheming Lottery;
        And kisses, too,
        As good as new,
    Which weren’t very hard to win,
        For he who won
        The eyes of fun
    Was sure to have the kisses in.
          A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

    This Lottery, this Lottery
    In Cupid’s court went merrily,
        And Cupid played
        A Jewish trade
    In this his scheming Lottery;
        For hearts, we’re told,
    In _shares_ he sold
        To many a fond believing drone,
        And cut the hearts
        In sixteen parts
    So well, each thought the whole his own,
          A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

                                         THOMAS MOORE.




CUPID’S CURSE


    My love is fair, my love is gay,
      As fresh as are the flowers in May;
    And of my love the roundelay,
    My merry, merry roundelay,
      Concludes with Cupid’s curse:
    They that do change old love for new,
      Pray gods they change for worse!

    My love can pipe, my love can sing,
      My love can many a pretty thing,
    And of his lovely praises ring
    My merry, merry roundelays.
      Amen to Cupid’s curse!
    They that do change old love for new,
      Pray gods they change for worse!

                                         GEORGE PEELE.




[Illustration: LOVE’S FLITTING]


    When Love is coming, coming,
        Meet him with songs and joy,
    Bid him alight and enter,
        Flatter and feast the boy;
    Crown him with gems and roses,
        Charm him with winning wiles,
    Bind him with lovely garlands,
        And kisses, and smiles.

    When Love is going, going,
        Leaving you all alone,
    Craving, the fickle tyrant,
        Some newer slave and throne,
    Hinder him not, but quickly,
        Even though your heart may bleed,
    Saddle a horse for his journey,
        And bid him God-speed!

                                      ELIZABETH AKERS.




[Illustration: LOVE’S TYRANNY]


    Love’s tyranny now wherefore should I praise,
    Not being enamoured of my altered plight!

    I often sigh who once sang roundelays;
    I know the sleepless gnomes that haunt the night.

    I turn with feverish jealousy to hear
    Words that were spoken when I was not near.

    I shroud my eyes from sights I dare not see,
    Yet who so spies must tell his tale to me.

    Madman am I, who give my vote for death,
    Yet heed not the grim hand that beckoneth.

    Love I entreat to go, and while I pray
    Grasp him with nervous fingers, lest he stray.

    Ah! than love’s blessing is no deadlier curse,
    And yet—and yet—to live undamned were worse.

                                      PERCY HEMINGWAY.




THE TRIUMPH OF CUPID


    He came in busy hours—
      My holidays are few—
    He brought the scent of flowers,
      And whispered, dear, of you.

    I vowed that I would flay him,
      And scourge him out of sight;
    Nay more, I vowed to slay him,
      The mischief-making sprite.

    I gave him caustic chiding,
      Let fly a poisoned dart.
    Presto! the lad was hiding
      Safely within my heart!

    There all day long he chatters
      Of some one’s charm and grace;
    Till nothing really matters
      Except to see your face.

    I would I had not chidden,
      Nor tried the sprite to kill;
    For in my heart safe hidden,
      He works his wayward will.

                                    GERALDINE MEYRICK.




SONG TO CUPID


    O wary elf Cupid, O dimpled, coy Cupid,
      Are you lost in the moonbeams, or hid in a rose?
    Who saw you, so nimble, slip out of a thimble,
      And hang from the loops of a lily-maid’s bows?

    Wee, spry little midget, the world’s in a fidget
      To snare and then coddle you, mischievous sprite;
    Your pranks and mad gambols and primrose-path rambles
      ’Mid briers and brambles are all my delight.

    In ivy-clad bowers you nestle for hours,
      And lurk in the flowers that swing in the breeze;
    There counting the kisses, the sweet stolen blisses,
      Of Strephon and Phyllis in languorous ease.

    We trifle and putter, our hearts in a flutter,
      In a tangled skein spun by the toiletted fair,
    The weary hours whiling, and dull care beguiling—
      Lo! dimpled and smiling, you’re loitering there!

    O wary elf Cupid, O cunning, coy Cupid,
      Are lovers all stupid, dear, rollicking boy?
    While maidens are sighing and love-knots are tying,
      The snap of your bow-string bodes sorrow and joy!

                                 HAROLD VAN SANTVOORD.




[Illustration: BANISHED LOVE]


    O shepherds! have ye wandering seen
    A wingèd boy with blinded eyes?
    I drove him from me yester e’en,
    Despite his tears and pleading sighs.

    He bears a pretty bow, and keen
    Tipped arrows in his quiver lie.
    O shepherds, tell me, have you seen
    This banished Love come wandering by?

    Why shines the sun, regret to mock,
    Why flaunt the flowers in hues so gay,
    Why skip with joy the snowy flock,
    When poor lost Love is far away?

    Unfeeling shepherds, wherefore smile
    And point toward my breaking heart?
    What! close behind me all this while?
    O sweet! we two no more shall part.

                                 VIRGINIA B. HARRISON.




[Illustration: TO CUPID FOR PARDON]


    Cupid, pardon what is past,
    And forgive our sins at last!
    Then we will be coy no more,
    But thy deity adore;
    Troths at fifteen we will plight,
    And will tread a dance each night,
    In the fields, or by the fire,
    With the youths that have desire.
    Given ear-rings we will wear,
    Bracelets of our lovers’ hair,
    Which they on our arms shall twist,
    With their names carved, on our wrist:
    All the money that we owe
    We in tokens will bestow;
    And learn to write that, when ’tis sent,
    Only our loves know what is meant.
          Oh, then pardon what is past,
          And forgive our sins at last.

                                BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.




LOVE’S HUNTING


    Hast thou seen a boy so clever,
      Bow in hand, and from his shoulders
    Three tipped arrows in a quiver,
      With which, piercing all beholders,
    He goes up and down forever?

    One dart, in the deep eye clinging,
      Blinds us ever to his aiming;
    One straight at the white throat flinging,
      He denies his wrong’s complaining;
    One he leaves in the heart stinging.

    And the last dart, tipt with scorning,
      Quickly kindles a hot passion
    Which consumes us with its burning:
      Eyeless, tongueless, in such fashion,
    Blind and mute, we wander yearning.

                                  JAMES HERBERT MORSE.




LOVE GOES A-HAWKING


        A ho! A ho!
      Love’s horn doth blow,
      And he will out a-hawking go.
    His shafts are light as beauty’s sighs,
    And bright as midnight’s brightest eyes,
      And round his starry way
    The swan-wing’d horses of the skies,
    With summer’s music in their manes,
    Curve their fair necks to zephyr’s reins,
      And urge their graceful play.

        A ho! A ho!
      Love’s horn doth blow,
      And he will out a-hawking go.
    The sparrows flutter round his wrist,
    The feathery thieves that Venus kist
      And taught their morning song,
    The linnets seek the airy list,
    And swallows too, small pets of Spring,
    Bear back the gale with swifter wing,
      And dart and wheel along.

        A ho! A ho!
      Love’s horn doth blow,
      And he will out a-hawking go.
    Now woe to every gnat that skips
    To filch the fruit of ladies’ lips,
      His felon blood is shed;
    And woe to flies, whose airy ships
    On beauty cast their anchoring bite,
    And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,
      Whose sting is slaughter-red.

                                THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.




LOVE’S BLINDNESS


    I have heard of reasons manifold
      Why Love must needs be blind,
    But this the best of all I hold—
      His eyes are in his mind.

    What outward form and feature are
      He guesseth but in part;
    But that within is good and fair
      He seeth with the heart.

                              SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.




LOVE ASLEEP


    I found Love sleeping in a place of shade,
      And as in some sweet dream the sweet lips smiled;
      Yea, seemed he as a lovely, sleeping child.
    Soft kisses on his full, red lips I laid,
    And with red roses did his tresses braid;
      Then pure, white lilies on his breast I piled,
      And fettered him with woodbine sweet and wild,
    And fragrant armlets for his arms I made.

    But while I, leaning, yearned across his breast,
      Upright he sprang, and from swift hand, alert,
        Sent forth a shaft that lodged within my heart.
    Ah, had I never played with Love at rest,
        He had not wakened, had not cast his dart,
      And I had lived who die now of this hurt.

                                PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.




[Illustration: DAN CUPID’S TRICK]


    The little boy called Love lay dead,
          And on his tiny tomb
    Some carven letters sweetly said
    That for a day his heart had bled,
          And named the maid for whom.

    This maid, on coming to the mound,
          Felt a remorseful pain,
    And kissed his image, clasped it round,
    Grew pale, and sank upon the ground,
          And shed an April rain.

    Then, like a prison-bursting thief,
          Outleapt the bounding boy,
    Whose stay in Hadés had been brief—
    For hardly had he died of grief
          Than he arose for joy.

    “What means this caper?” cried the maid
          As in his arms she sank,
    And half delighted, half afraid,
    Began most sweetly to upbraid
          This most audacious prank.

    “Fair maid, your scorn of me,” he said,
          “Was all a make-believe,
    And put the thought into my head
    To play the trick of being dead,
          To see how you would grieve.”

    She dashed with anger from her eyes
          Her all-too-tender tears,—
    And greatly to the lad’s surprise,
    And heedless of his woeful cries,
          She boxed his little ears.

    “Back to your tomb and there abide!
          And quit it not!” quoth she
    (And added, locking him inside),
    “I never loved you till you _died_
          For just your love of _me_.”

                                      THEODORE TILTON.




LOVE’S ARROWS


    I saw young Love make trial of his bow,
      In May’s green garden where he shot his dart,
      Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art,
    But other eyes did mark him as I know;
    For my sweet lady sate anear his throw,
      And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart,
      So that we might not feel the bitter smart
    Love leaveth there when time doth force to go.

    We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,
      Or watched them quiver in the targe below;
    Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass
    Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came,
    Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,
      That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

                                         WALTER CRANE.




LOVE, THE GUEST


    I did not dream that Love would stay,
      I deemed him but a passing guest,
    Yet here he lingers many a day.

    I said, “Young Love will flee with May,
      And leave forlorn the hearth he blest”;
    I did not dream that Love would stay.

    My envious neighbor mocks me “Nay,
      Love lies not long in any nest”;
    Yet here he lingers many a day.

    And though I did his will alway,
      And gave him even of my best;
    I did not dream that Love would stay.

    I have no skill to bid him stay,
      Of tripping tongue or cunning jest,
    Yet here he lingers many a day.

    Beneath his ivory feet I lay
      Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast;
    I did not dream that Love would stay.

    Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say,
      Home turning for the noonday rest;
    Yet here he lingers many a day.

    His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay,
      His eyes through tears smile loveliest;
    I did not dream that love would stay.

    He sometimes sighs when far away
      The low red sun makes fair the west,
    Yet here he lingers many a day.

    Thrice blest of all men am I! yea,
      Although of all unworthiest;
    I did not dream that Love would stay,
    Yet here he lingers many a day.

                                     GRAHAM R. TOMSON.




CUPID


    Selfish rogue, did Psyche dream,
      When her lamp she held above him,
    How the oil would downward stream,
      Wake the rogue and make her love him?

                                   MARY CHACE PECKHAM.




FOR CUPID DEAD


    When Love is dead, what more but funeral rites—
      To lay his sweet corse lovingly to rest,
    To cover him with rose and eglantine,
      And all fair posies that he loved the best?

    What more, but kisses for his close-shut eyes—
      His cold, still lips that never more will speak—
    His hair, too bright for dust of death to dim—
      The flush scarce faded from his frozen cheek?

    What more but tears that will not warm his brow,
      Although they burn the eyes from which they start?—
    No bitter weeping or more bitter words
      Can rouse to one more throb that pulseless heart.

    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.




[Illustration: AT THE SIGN OF THE BLIND CUPID]


    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.

[Illustration]




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.




[Illustration: VENUS’ RUNAWAY]


    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.




[Illustration: A MADRIGAL]


    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.




[Illustration: THE BEGGING CUPID]

_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.




[Illustration: THE GROWTH OF LOVE]


    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.




[Illustration: LOVE IS DEAD]


    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.

    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.




[Illustration: THE FILLET]


    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.

[Illustration]




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.




[Illustration: DAMON AND CUPID]


    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.

[Illustration]