. The princess, a medley. e, I would pipe and trill,And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. t O were I thou that she might take me in,And lay me on her bosom, and her heartWould rock the snowy cradle till I died. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,Delaying as the tender ash delaysTo clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown ;Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,But in the North long since my nest is made. O tell her, brief is life but love is long,And brief the sun of summer in the North,And brief the moon of beauty in the
. The princess, a medley. e, I would pipe and trill,And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. t O were I thou that she might take me in,And lay me on her bosom, and her heartWould rock the snowy cradle till I died. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,Delaying as the tender ash delaysTo clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown ;Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,But in the North long since my nest is made. O tell her, brief is life but love is long,And brief the sun of summer in the North,And brief the moon of beauty in the South. O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each,Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time,Stared with great eyes, and laughd with alien lips,And knew not what they meant; for still my voiceRang false : but smiling, Not for thee, she said, O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 72 77//: The golden woods Shall burst her veil; marsh-divers, rather, maid, Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : and this A mere love-poem ! O for such, my friend, We hold them slight; they mind us of the time When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men, That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, And dress the victim to the offering up, And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, And play the slave to gain the tyranny. Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor once ; She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, A rogue of canzonets and serenades. I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. So they blaspheme the muse ! But great is song A MEDLEY. Used to great ends : ourself have often tried Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dashd The passion of the prophetess j for song Is duer unto freedom, force and growth Of spirit, than to junketing and love. Love is it ? Would this same mock-love, and this Mock-Hymen were laid up like win
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