Give, O give those lips of love That the coral boughs eclipse; Give sweet kisses, dove by dove, Soft descending on my lips. See my soul how forth she flies! 'Neath each kiss my pierced heart dies, Pierced heart dies. Wherefore dost thou draw my life, Drain my heart's blood with thy kiss? Scarce can I endure the strife Of this ecstasy of bliss! Set, O set my poor heart free, Bound in icy chains by thee, Chains by thee. Hide, O hide those hills of snow, Twinned upon thy breast that rise, Where the virgin fountains flow With fresh milk of Paradise! Thy bare bosom breathes of myrrh, From thy whole self pleasures stir, Pleasures stir. Hide, O hide those paps that tire Sense and spirit with excess Of snow-whiteness and desire Of thy breast's deliciousness! See'st thou, cruel, how I swoon? Leav'st thou me half lost so soon? Lost so soon? In rendering this lyric to Lydia, I have restored the fifth stanza, only one line of which, "Quid mihi sugis vivum sanguinem," remains in the original. This I did because it seemed necessary to effect the transition from the stanzas beginning _Pande, puella, pande_, to those beginning _Conde papillas, conde_. Among these more direct outpourings of personal passion, place may be found for a delicate little _Poem of Privacy_, which forms part of the _Carmina Burana_. Unfortunately, the text of this slight piece is very defective in the MS., and has had to be conjecturally restored in several places. A POEM OF PRIVACY. No. 33. When a young man, passion-laden, In a chamber meets a maiden, Then felicitous communion, By love's strain between the twain, Grows from forth their union; For the game, it hath no name, Of lips, arms, and hidden charms. Nor can I here forbear from inserting another _Poem of Privacy_, bolder in its openness of speech, more glowing in its warmth of colouring. If excuse should be pleaded or the translation and reproduction of this distinctly Pagan ditty, it must be found in the singularity of its motive, which is as unmedieval as could be desired by the bitterest detractor of medieval sentiment. We seem, while reading it, to have before our eyes the Venetian picture of a Venus, while the almost prosaic particularity of description illustrates what I have said above about the detailed realism of the Goliardic style. FLORA. No. 34. Rudely blows the winter blast, Withered leaves are falling fast, Cold hath hushed the birds at last. While the heavens were warm and glowing, Nature's offspring loved in May; But man's heart no debt is owing To such change of month or day As the dumb brute-beasts obey. Oh, the joys of this possessing! How unspeakable the blessing That my Flora yields to-day!