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, 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; No smile to cheer and no voice to greet, 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; 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; And enticing men to pull; Yet, the lusty spring hath staid; Every woman, every maid. FLETCHER. TO LUCY. WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no more, I blame all the fears I gave way to before: 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 Calling home the smallest part What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel gold, To convert them to a braid, Were her hand as rich a prize |