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