THE VICTOR.

MIGHTY Ones, Love and Death!

Ye are the strong in this world of ours;

Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the

flowers,

Which hath the conqueror's wreath?

Thou art the victor, Love!

Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, the free,

The strength of the battle is given to thee,
The spirit from above!

Thou hast look'd on Death and smiled;

Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form,

Through the waves of the fight, thro' the rush of the storm,

On field, and flood, and wild!

No: thou art the victor, Death;

Thou comest, and where is that which spoke

From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke ?

Gone with the fleeting breath!

Thou comest-and what is left

Of all that loved us, to say if ought

Yet loves,-yet answers the burning thought Of the spirit, lone and reft?

Silence is where thou art;
Silently there must kindred meet,

No smile to cheer and no voice to greet,
No bounding of heart to heart!

Boast not thy victory, Death;

It is but as the clouds o'er the sun-beam's power; It is but as the winter o'er leaf and flower,

That slumber the snow beneath.

It is but as a tyrant's reign

O'er the voice and the lips he bids be still;
But the fiery thought and the lofty will
Are not for him to chain!

They shall soar his might above,

And thus with the root whence affection springs, Though buried, it is not of mortal things

Thou art the victor, Love!

HEMANS.

SPRING SONG.

Now the lusty spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view.
Every where, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow,

And enticing men to pull;
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines of sweet honey full:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
"Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die."

Yet, the lusty spring hath staid;
Blushing red, and purest white,
Daintily to love invite

Every woman, every maid.
Cherries kissing as they grow,
And inviting men to taste;
Apples, even ripe below,
Winding gently to the waist:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
"Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die."

FLETCHER.

TO LUCY.

WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no

more,

I blame all the fears I gave way to before:
I say to my heart, "be at rest, and believe

That whom once she has chosen she never will leave."

But, ah! when I think of each ravishing grace That plays in the smiles of that heavenly face, My heart beats again: I again apprehend Some fortunate rival in every friend.

These painful suspicions you cannot remove; Since you neither can lessen your charms, nor my love:

But, doubts caused by passion you never can

blame;

For they are not ill founded, or you feel the

same.

LORD LYTTELTON.

LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.

SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell
On a rock, or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel gold,
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too!
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hand as rich a prize
As her hair or precious eyes,
If she lay them out to take
Kisses, for good manners sake;
And let every lover skip,
From her hand unto her lip;
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?