SERENADE

Look out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light:
Then, lady, up, — look out, and be
A sister to the night!

Sleep not! thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast;

Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly,
Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay,

With looks whose brightness well might make

Of darker nights a day.

Edward Coate Pinkney

SERENADE

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet, while I address thee now,
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep.
'Tis sweet enough to make me weep,
That tender thought of love and thee,
That while the world is hushed so deep,
Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep!
With golden visions for thy dower,
While I this midnight vigil keep,

And bless thee in thy silent bower;
To me 'tis sweeter than the power
Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled,
That I alone, at this still hour,

In patient love outwatch the world.
Thomas Hood

SONG, BY TWO VOICES

(From "The Brides' Tragedy ")

FIRST VOICE

Who is the baby, that doth lie
Beneath the silken canopy
Of thy blue eye?

SECOND

It is young Sorrow, laid asleep
In the crystal deep.

BOTH

Let us sing his lullaby,
Heigho! a sob and a sigh.

FIRST VOICE

What sound is that, so soft, so clear,
Harmonious as a bubbled tear
Bursting, we hear?

SECOND

It is young Sorrow, slumber breaking,
Suddenly awaking.

BOTH

Let us sing his lullaby,

Heigho! a sob and a sigh.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

FAREWELL TO ARMS

His golden locks time hath to silver turned;

O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst age, and age at time, hath spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green.

His helmet now shall make an hive for bees,
And lovers' sonnets turn to holy psalms;
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,

And feed on prayers, that are old age's alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,
"Bless'd be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curs'd be the souls that think her any wrong!"
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right

To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
George Peele

FAWNIA

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe!
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land

Under wide heavens, but yet I know not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows,

Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower; Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn, She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.

Ah, when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be compared to her note;
Ne'er breath'd such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.
Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world, as doth the sun,
And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled;
When she is set, the gladsome day is done.
O glorious sun, imagine me thy west,
Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
Robert Greene

ROSE AYLMER

Ah what avails the sceptred 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 of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor

MARGARET

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry;
Oh, if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I!
No longer could I doubt him true,
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

Walter Savage Landor