HE meets, by heavenly chance express, The destined maid; some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness Which others cannot understand. His merits in her presence grow, To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise. For joy of her he cannot sleep; Her beauty haunts him all the night; It melts his heart, it makes him weep For wonder, worship, and delight. O, paradox of love, he longs, Most humble when he most aspires, To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs From her he honours and desires. Her graces make him rich, and ask No guerdon; this imperial style Affronts him; he disdains to bask, The pensioner of her priceless smile. He prays for some hard thing to do, Some work of fame and labour immense, To stretch the languid bulk and thew Of love’s fresh-born magnipotence. No smallest boon were bought too dear, Though barter’d for his love-sick life; Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer, To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife He notes how queens of sweetness still Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate; How, self-consign’d with lavish will, They ask but love proportionate; How swift pursuit by small degrees, Love’s tactic, works like miracle; How valour, clothed in courtesies, Brings down the haughtiest citadel; And therefore, though he merits not To kiss the braid upon her skirt, His hope, discouraged ne’er a jot, Out-soars all possible desert. II. _Love a Virtue_. Strong passions mean weak will, and he Who truly knows the strength and bliss Which are in love, will own with me No passion but a virtue ’tis. Few hear my word; it soars above The subtlest senses of the swarm Of wretched things which know not love, Their Psyche still a wingless worm. Ice-cold seems heaven’s noble glow To spirits whose vital heat is hell; And to corrupt hearts even so The songs I sing, the tale I tell. These cannot see the robes of white In which I sing of love. Alack, But darkness shows in heavenly light, Though whiteness, in the dark, is black! III. _The Attainment_. You love? That’s high as you shall go; For ’tis as true as Gospel text, Not noble then is never so, Either in this world or the next. HONORIA. 1 Grown weary with a week’s exile From those fair friends, I rode to see The church-restorings; lounged awhile, And met the Dean; was ask’d to tea, And found their cousin, Frederick Graham At Honor’s side. Was I concern’d, If, when she sang, his colour came, That mine, as with a buffet, burn’d? A man to please a girl! thought I, Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds Of wrath, so hid as she was by, Sweet moon between her lighted clouds! 2