She is the flower of nations, The diamond of my eye; All others are but gloworms That in her splendour die. As shining stars all vanish When suns their light reveal, So beauties shrink to shadows At the feet of Mary Neele. I ask no better fortune Than to embrace her charms; Like Plato I would laugh at wealth While she was in my arms; And if I cannot gain her From grief there's no appeal; My joy, my pain, my life, my all Are fixed with Mary Neele. The stone of vain philosophers, That wonder-working toy, The golden fleece of Jason, That Helen stole from Troy, The beauty and the riches That all these fames unseal, Are nothing all, and less than that, Compared to Mary Neele. O if I cannot gain her Right wretched must I be, And caves and lonely mountains Must be the life for me, To pine in gloom and sorrow, And hide the deaths I feel, For light nor life I may not share When lost to Mary Neele. LOVE SCORNED BY PRIDE O far is fled the winter wind, And far is fled the frost and snow, But the cold scorn on my love's brow Hath never yet prepared to go. More lasting than ten winters' wind, More cutting than ten weeks of frost, Is the chill frowning of thy mind, Where my poor heart was pledged and lost. I see thee taunting down the street, And by the frowning that I see I might have known it long ere now, Thy love was never meant for me. And had I known ere I began That love had been so hard to win, I would have filled my heart with pride, Nor left one hope to let love in. I would have wrapped it in my breast, And pinned it with a silver pin, Safe as a bird within its nest, And 'scaped the trouble I am in. I wish I was a happy bird, And thou a true and timid dove: O I would fly the land of grief, And rest me in the land of love. O I would rest where I love best; Where I love best I may not be: A hawk doth on that rose-tree sit, And drives young love to fear and flee. O would I were the goldfinch gay! My richer suit had tempted strong. O would I were the nightingale! Thou then had'st listened to my song. Though deep my scorn I cannot hate, Thy beauty's sweet though sour thy pride; To praise thee is to love thee still, And it doth cheer my heart beside. For I could swim the deepest lake, And I could climb the highest tree, The greatest danger face and brave, And all for one kind kiss of thee. O love is here, and love is there: O love is like no other thing: Its frowns can make a king a slave, Its smiles can make a slave a king. BETRAYED Dream not of love, to think it like What waking love may prove to be, For I dreamed so and broke my heart, When my false lover slighted me. Love, like to flowers, is sweet when green; The rose in bud aye best appears; And she that loves a handsome man Should have more wit than she has years.