II.

That is a heart the queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic

Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on,-
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

Dear and dewy,

And that infantine fresh air of hers!

II.

To think men cannot take you, Sweet,

And infold you,

Ay, and hold you,

And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

III.

You like us for a glance, you know

For a word's sake

Or a sword's sake:

All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

IV.

And in turn we make you ours, we say—
You and youth too,

Eyes and mouth too,

All the face composed of flowers, we say.

V.

All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet—
Sing and say for,

Watch and pray for,

Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

VI.

But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,

Paid you, brayed you

In a mortar-for you could not, Sweet!

VII.

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there :

Be its beauty

Its sole duty!

Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

As,-why must one, for the love foregone,
Scout mere liking?

Thunder-striking

Earth, the heaven, we looked above for, gone!

X.

Why, with beauty, needs there money be,

Love with liking?

Crush the fly-king

In his gauze, because no honey-bee?

XI.

May not the liking be so simple-sweet,

If love grew there

"Twould undo there

All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
Just perfection-

Whence, rejection

Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

XIV.

Shall we burn up, tread that face at once

Into tinder,

And so hinder

Sparks from kindling all the place at once?

XV.

Or else kiss away one's soul on her?

Your love fancies!

A sick man sees

Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!

XVI.

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—

Plucks a mold-flower

For his gold flower,

Uses fine things that efface the rose:

XVII.

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,

Precious metals

Ape the petals,

Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

XVIII.

Then how grace a rose? I know a way!

Leave it, rather.

Must you gather?

Smell, kiss, wear it--at last, throw away!

A LIGHT WOMAN.

I.

So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?→ My friend, or the mistress of my friend

With her wanton eyes, or me?

II.

My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net.

III.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,
A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine and ninety other spoils,
The hundredth for a whim!

IV.

And before my friend be wholly hers,
How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle's the game her pride prefers,
Though she snaps at a wren instead.

V.

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed.

VI.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
The wren is he, with his maiden face.
-You look away and your lip is curled?
Patience, a moment's space!

VII.

For see, my friend goes shaking and white;
He eyes me as the basilisk:

I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun's disk.

VIII.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:

"Though I love her-that, he comprehends— One should master one's passions (love, in chief), And be loyal to one's friends!"

IX.

And she, she lies in my hand as tame
As a pear late basking over a wall;
Just a touch to try, and off it came;
'Tis mine,-çan I let it fall?

X.

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst!

Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst

When I gave its stalk a twist.

XI.

And I,-what I seem to my friend, you see;
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess.

XII.

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own:
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone!

XIII.

One likes to show the truth for the truth;
That the woman was light is very true:
But suppose she says,-Never mind that youth!
What wrong have I done to you?

XIV.

Well, anyhow, here the story stays,

So far at least as I understand;

And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,
Here's a subject made to your hand!

LOVE IN A LIFE.

ROOM after room,

I hunt the house through

We inhabit together.

I.

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her---
Next time, herself!--not the trouble behind her

Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume!

As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew: Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.

Yet the day wears,

And door succeeds door;

I try the fresh fortune

II.

Range the wide house from the wing to the center.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter,