Almighty love! what wonders are not thine!
Soon as thy influence breathes upon the soul,
By thee, the haughty bend the suppliant knee,
By thee, the hand of avarice is open'd
Into profusion; by thy power the heart
Of cruelty is melted into softness:
The rude grow tender, and the fearful bold.
Of hapless love, and passion unapprov'd:
But where consenting wishes meet, and vows,
Reciprocally breath'd, confirm the tie;
Joy rolls on joy, an unexhausted stream!
And virtue crowns the sacred scene with scene.
As love can exquisitely bless,
Love only feels the marvellous of pain;
Opens new veins of torture in the soul,
And wakes the nerve where agonies are born.
'Tis love combin'd with guilt alone, that melts
The soften'd soul to cowardice and sloth;
But virtuous passion prompts the great resolve,
And fans the slumbering spark of heav'nly fire.
Know'st thou not yet, when love invades the soul,
That all her faculties receive her chains;
That reason gives her sceptre to his hand,
Or only struggles to be more enslav'd?
Why, when the balm of sleep descends on man,
Do gay delusions, wand'ring o'er the brain,
Sooth the delighted soul with empty bliss ?
To want give affluence, and to slavery freedom?
Such are love's joys, the lenitives of life,
A fancy'd treasure, and a waking dream.
Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee,
But they do choke and flutter in my throat,
And make me like a child.
Joanna Baillie's Ethwald, a. 2, s. 1.
Oft in the watchful post, or weary march,
Oft in the nightly silence of my tent,
My fixed mind shall gaze upon it still;
But it will pass before my fancy's eye,
Like some delightful vision of the soul,
To soothe, not trouble it.
Joanna Baillie's Basil, a. 1, s. 2.
Now pray thee be not caught with some fair dame, To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself:
It is offensive in the public eye,
And suits not with a man of thy endowments. Ibid.
Lightly thou say'st that woman's love is false,
The thought is falser far-
For some of them are true as martyr's legends,
As full of suffering faith, of burning love,
Of high devotion-worthier of heaven than earth,
Oh, I do know a tale! Maturin's Bertram, a, 1, s. 5.
Why dost thou wander by this mournful light, Feeding sick fancy with the thought that poisons? Ibid. a. 2, s. 3.
Man may despoil his brother man of all
'That's great or glittering-kingdoms fall-hosts yieldFriends fail-slaves fly-and all betray-and, more Than all, the most indebted--but a heart
That loves without self-love! 'Tis here-now prove it. Byron's Sardanapalus, a. 4, s. 1.
Peace! I have sought it where it should be found, In love with love too, which perhaps deserved it; And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart
A weakness of the spirit-listless days,
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep,
Have come upon me.
Byron's Heaven and Earth, part 1, s. 2.
Alas! what else is love but sorrow?
He who made earth in love, had soon to grieve
Above its first and best inhabitants. Ibid. part 1, s. 3.
My Anah! let me call thee mine,
Albeit thou art not; 'tis a word, I cannot
Part with, although I must from thee.
The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world-
The hues of twilight-the sun's gorgeous coming-
His setting indescribable, which fills
My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him
Along the western paradise of clouds-
The forest shade-the green bough-the bird's voice,
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love,
And mingles with the song of cherubim,
As the day closes over Eden's walls ;
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart,
Like Adah's face: I turn from earth to heaven
Byron's Cain, a. 2, s. 2.
With thee conversing, I forget all time;
All seasons and their change, all please alike.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 4.
So spake our general mother, and with eyes
Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd,
And meek surrender, half embracing lean'd
On our first father; half her swelling breast
Naked met his under the flowing gold
Of her loose tresses hid: he in delight
Both of her beauty and submissive charms
Smil'd with superior love.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 4.
Leaning half rais'd, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld
Beauty, which whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces.
While I sit with thee, I seem in Heaven,
And sweeter thy discourse is to my ear
Than fruits of palm tree pleasantest to thirst
And hunger both, from labour, at the hour
Of sweet repast; they satiate, and soon fill
Though pleasant, but thy words with grace divine
Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety.
In loving thou dost well, in passion not,
Wherein true love consists not; love refines
The thoughts, and heart enlarges, hath its seat
In reason, and is judicious, is the scale
By which to Heav'nly love thou may'st ascend,
Not sunk in carnal pleasure, for which cause
Among the beasts no mate for thee was found. Ibid.
To love thou blam'st me not, for love thou say'st
Leads up to Heav'n, is both the way and guide. Ibid.
Her hand he seiz'd, and to a shady bank,
Thick overhead with verdant roof imbow'r'd,
He led her nothing loath; flow'rs were the couch,
Pansies, and violets, and asphodel,
And hyacinth, earth's freshest softest lap. Ibid. b. 9.
Against his powerful knowledge, not deceiv'd,
But fondly overcome with female charm.
In me is no delay; with thee to go,
Is to stay here; with thee here to stay,
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me
Art all things under Heav'n, all places thou.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 12.
O the soft commerce! O the tender ties,
Close-twisted with the fibres of the heart!
Which, broken, break them; and drain off the soul
Of human joy; and make it pain to live-
And is it then to live? when such friends part,
'Tis the survivor dies-My heart, no more!
Young's Night Thoughts, n. 5.
Who never lov'd, ne'er suffered; he feels nothing,
Who nothing feels but for himself alone;
And when we feel for others, reason reels
O'erloaded, from her path, and man runs mad. Ibid.
Whom love deludes into his thorny wilds,
Thro' flowery-tempting paths, or leads a life
Of fever'd rapture, or of cruel care;
His brightest aims extinguish'd all, and all
His lively moments running down to waste.
Thomson's Seasons-Spring.
Thus in soft anguish he consumes the day,
Nor quits his deep retirement, till the moon
Peeps through the chambers of the fleecy east,
Enlighten'd by degrees, and in her train
Leads on the gentle hours; then forth he walks,
Beneath the trembling languish of her beam,
With softened soul, and wooes the bird of eve
To mingle woes with his.
All nature fades extinct; and she alone
Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,
Fills every sense,
pants in every vein.
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