What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

P. B. Shelley

CLXXXV

ECHOES

H

OW sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away o'er lawns and lakes Goes answering light !

Yet Love hath echoes truer far
And far more sweet
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn or lute or soft guitar
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, — in youth sincere
And only then,
The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear -
Is by that one, that only Dear
Breathed back again.

T. Moore

CLXXXVI

A SERENADE

A

H! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trillid all day,

Sits hush'd his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,

But where is County Guy ?

The village maid steals through the shade

Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know
But where is County Guy ?

Sir W. Scott

CLXXXVII

TO THE EVENING STAR
EM of the crimson-colour'd Even,

Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of heaven
Beloved Star, dost thou delay ?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns
When soft the tear of twilight flows;
So due thy plighted love returns
To chambers brighter than the rose ;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamour'd orb above
Descends and burns to meet with thee !

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
When all unheavenly passions fly,

Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day
Queen of propitious stars, appear,
And early rise, and long delay
When Caroline herself is here !

Shine on her chosen green resort
Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
And wanton flowers, that well may court
An angel's feet to tread them down :

Shine on her sweetly scented road
Thou star of evening's purple dome,
That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue : -

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air
Her silken tresses darkly flow
And fall upon her brow so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
In converse sweet to wander far--
O bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star !

T. Campbell

CLXXXVIII

TO THE NIGHT

SW

WIFTLY walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night !
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear, –

Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray

Star-inwrought !
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land
Touching all with thine opiate wand

Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh’d for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sigh’d for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried

Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?— And I replied

No, not thee!

a

Death will come when thou art dead,

Soon, too soon —
Sleep will come when thou art fled ;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovéd Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

P. B. Shelley

CLXXXIX

TO A DISTANT FRIEND

HY art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant

that air

Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ?

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
Bound to thy service with unceasing care -
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.

Speak ! — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know !

W. Wordsworth

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