Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, Love is a sword which cuts its sheath, And through the clefts itself has made, We spy the flashes of the blade! But through the clefts itself has made, We likewise see Love's flashing blade By rust consumed, or snapt in twain: And only hilt and stump remain. ?1825. THE KISS One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sighed-- Your scorn the little boon denied. Ah why refuse the blameless bliss? Can danger lurk within a kiss? Yon viewless wanderer of the vale, The Spirit of the Western Gale, At Morning's break, at Evening's close Inhales the sweetness of the Rose, And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom Sighing back the soft perfume. Vigour to the Zephyr's wing Her nectar-breathing kisses fling; And He the glitter of the Dew Scatters on the Rose's hue. Bashful lo! she bends her head, And darts a blush of deeper Red! Too well those lovely lips disclose The triumphs of the opening Rose; O fair! O graceful! bid them prove As passive to the breath of Love. In tender accents, faint and low, Well-pleased I hear the whispered "No!" The whispered "No"--how little meant! Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent! For on those lovely lips the while Dawns the soft relenting smile, And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy The gentle violence of Joy. ?1794. NOT AT HOME That Jealousy may rule a mind Where Love could never be I know; but ne'er expect to find Love without Jealousy. She has a strange cast in her ee, A swart sour-visaged maid-- But yet Love's own twin-sister she, His house-mate and his shade. Ask for her and she'll be denied:-- What then? they only mean Their mistress has lain down to sleep, And can't just then be seen. ?183O. NAMES [FROM LESSING] I ask'd my fair one happy day, What I should call her in my lay; By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Nesera, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece. "Ah!" replied my gentle fair, "Beloved, what are names but air? Choose thou whatever suits the line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me Thine." _Morning Post_, August 27,1799. TO LESBIA Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.--CATULLUS. My Lesbia, let us love and live, And to the winds, my Lesbia, give Each cold restraint, each boding fear Of age and all her saws severe. Yon sun now posting to the main Will set,--but 'tis to rise again;-- But we, when once our mortal light Is set, must sleep in endless night. Then come, with whom alone I'll live, A thousand kisses take and give! Another thousand!--to the store Add hundreds--then a thousand more! And when they to a million mount, Let confusion take the account,-- That you, the number never knowing, May continue still bestowing-- That I for joys may never pine, Which never can again be mine!