A spring goes singing through its reedy grass, A lark sings o’er my head, Drowned in the sky--O pass, ye visions, pass, 15 I would that I were dead!-- Why hast thou opened that forbidden door From which I ever flee? O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more, Let my vexed spirit be! 20 O violet! thy odour through my brain Hath searched, and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf. _William W. Story._ CCLXIX _JOY._ Sweet order hath its draught of bliss Graced with the pearl of God’s consent, Ten times ecstatic in that ’tis Considerate and innocent. In vain disorder grasps the cup; 5 The pleasure’s not enjoyed, but spilt; And, if he stoops to lick it up, It only tastes of earth and guilt; His sorry raptures rest destroys; To live, like comets they must roam; 10 On settled poles turn solid joys, And sun-like pleasures shine at home. _Coventry Patmore._ CCLXX _THE HAPPY HUSBAND._ He safely walks in darkest ways, Whose youth is lighted from above, Where through the senses’ silvery haze Dawns the veiled moon of nuptial love. Who is the happy husband? He, 5 Who scanning his unwedded life, Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free, ’Twas faithful to his future wife. _Coventry Patmore._ CCLXXI _THEN._ I give thee treasures hour by hour, That old-time princes asked in vain, And pined for in their useless power, Or died of passion’s eager pain. I give thee love as God gives light, 5 Aside from merit, or from prayer, Rejoicing in its own delight, And freer than the lavish air. I give thee prayers, like jewels strung On golden threads of hope and fear; 10 And tenderer thoughts than ever hung In a sad angel’s pitying tear. As earth pours freely to the sea Her thousand streams of wealth untold, So flows my silent life to thee, 15 Glad that its very sands are gold. What care I for thy carelessness? I give from depths that overflow, Regardless that their power to bless Thy spirit cannot sound or know. 20 Far lingering on a distant dawn My triumph shines, more sweet than late; When from these mortal mists withdrawn, Thy heart shall know me--I can wait. _Rose Terry._ CCLXXII _THE PRINCE OF ORANGE IN 1672._