Part 41

My Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away! Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love.

George Crabbe [1754-1832]

"O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR"

O were my Love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

O gin my Love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'; O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Sealed on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fleyed awa' by Phoebus' light.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"BONNIE WEE THING"

Bonnie wee thing! cannie wee thing! Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look, and languish In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit and grace, and love and beauty, In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

ROSE AYLMER

Ah, what avails the sceptered race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

"TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE" Written On Returning A Blank Book

Take back the Virgin Page White and unwritten still; Some hand more calm and sage The leaf must fill. Thoughts came as pure as light - Pure as even you require: But oh! each word I write Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book: Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you. Like you, 'tis fair and bright; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write One wrong wish there.

Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam, Should calmer thoughts arise Towards you and home; Fancy may trace some line Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, but shine. Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as o'er ocean far Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star Through the cold deep; So may the words I write Tell through what storms I stray, You still the unseen light Guiding my way.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS"

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known, To which time will but make thee more dear! No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets The same look which she turned when he rose!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

THE NUN

If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show; What! you become a nun, my dear, I'll not believe it, no!

If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be: The Cupids every one, dear, Will chant, "We trust in thee!" The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a-dying, The water turn to wine: What! you go take the vows, my dear? You may - but they'll be mine.