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.