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.