MY lady has a casket cut
In scarlet coral, crimson-red;
Like Cupid’s bow, to keep it shut,
Two pouting locks are tightenèd,
In cunning curvings chisellèd.
Some mighty wizard it did make,
So strong that nothing can undo;
And if you thence would treasure take,
You press your lips the clasping to;
The magic word’s “I love but you!”
You’ll find a row of pearls within,
As pure as scarce come from the sea,
And set the rose and crimson in,
Twinkling with sweetest symmetry,—
I trow most beautiful to see!
And eke the clasp ’s so cunning wrought,
That as it opens, treble clear,
There comes a music, glib befraught,
Like silver lutes, that to the ear
As sweet love-ditties do appear.
And there within, as peach and rose,
And pine and plum, most savoury choice,
Elixirs sweet my Lady stows,
To make the saddest heart rejoice,
Or passionate the poet’s voice.
A rich soul-philtre, that to sip
I swear must be to drain it dry,
And never take away your lip
Till time has toll’d your time to die,
Yet dying, love eternally.
Theo. Marzials.
NOT I, SWEET SOUL, NOT I.
ALL glorious as the Rainbow’s birth,
She came in Springtide’s golden hours;
When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth,
And May was crowned with buds and flowers.
The mounting devil at my heart
Clomb faintlier, as my life did win
The charmèd heaven she wrought apart,
To wake its better Angel in.
With radiant mien she trode serene,
And passed me smiling by!
Oh! who that looked could help but love?
Not I, sweet soul, not I.
The dewy eyelids of the Dawn
Ne’er oped such heaven as hers did show:
It seemed her dear eyes might have shone
As jewels in some starry brow.
Her face flashed glory like a shrine
Of lily-bell with sunburst bright,
Where came and went love-thoughts divine,
As low winds walk the leaves in light:
She wore her beauty with the grace
Of Summer’s star-clad sky;
Oh! who that looked could help but love?
Not I, sweet soul, not I.
Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit
Of love were ripening to be pressed:
Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root,
Might not have broken a Babe’s rest,—
More liquid than the running brooks,
More vernal than the voice of Spring,
When Nightingales are in their nooks,
And all the leafy thickets ring.
The love she coyly hid at heart
Was shyly conscious in her eye;
Oh! who that looked could help but love?
Not I, sweet soul, not I.
Gerald Massey.