THE COQUETTE. [RONDEAU.] HIS pirate bold upon Love's sea Till all its treasure yielded be. Her craft, the Conquest, waits for thee Where her swift rapine none may see ;— Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee, And crave sweet shelter; she'll deride SAMUEL WADDINGTON. CARPE DIEM. [RONDEAU.] DO-DAY, what is there in the air Nor crocuses to crown your hair, And hail you down my garden way. Last night the full moon's frozen stare To-day is here ;-come, crown to-day With Spring's delight or Spring's despair! Love cannot bide old Time's delay Down my glad gardens light winds play, And my whole life shall bloom and bear To-day. THEOPHILE MARZIALS. [RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.] Y day and night are in my lady's hand; For me her favour glorifies the land; Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; Whilst she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand. All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the Summer night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand ; I have no other sunrise than her sight. Her silver speech is like the singing flight Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; Her kiss, a dream of delicate delight; For me, her favour glorifies the land. What if the Winter chase the Summer bland ! The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight, My day and night. JOHN PAYNE. [RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.] Y soul is sick of nightingale and rose, grove; I weary of the fevers and the throes, And all the enervating dreams of love. At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove The meadows, where the simple daisy shows Her guiltless bosom to the skies aboveMy soul is sick of nightingale and rose. The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose, But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze, The perfume and the darkness of the grove. I love to hear at eve the gentle dove Contented coo the day's delightful close. She sings of joy and all the calm thereof,I weary of the fevers and the throes. |