The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers
Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.
The roses were gathered by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late;
Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.
The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade,
Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed,
And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power
To bind in his chain even one happy hour.
HOW SHALL I WOO?
If I speak to thee in friendship's name,
Thou think'st I speak too coldly;
If I mention Love's devoted flame,
Thou say'st I speak too boldly.
Between these two unequal fires,
Why doom me thus to hover?
I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires,
If more thou seek'st, a lover.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
Fair one, choose between the two.
Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play,
When first he comes to woo thee,
There's a chance that he may fly away,
As fast as he flies to thee.
While Friendship, tho' on foot she come,
No flights of fancy trying,
Will, therefore, oft be found at home,
When Love abroad is flying.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
Dear one, choose between the two.
If neither feeling suits thy heart
Let's see, to please thee, whether
We may not learn some precious art
To mix their charms together;
One feeling, still more sweet, to form
From two so sweet already—
A friendship that like love is warm,
A love like friendship steady.
Thus let it be, thus let me woo,
Dearest, thus we'll join the two.
SPRING AND AUTUMN.
Every season hath its pleasures;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
Brighten Autumn's soberer time.
So Life's year begins and closes;
Days tho' shortening still can shine;
What tho' youth gave love and roses,
Age still leaves us friends and wine.
Phillis, when she might have caught me,
All the Spring looked coy and shy,
Yet herself in Autumn sought me,
When the flowers were all gone by.
Ah, too late;—she found her lover
Calm and free beneath his vine,
Drinking to the Spring-time over,
In his best autumnal wine.