A POEM OF PRIVACY.
No. 33.
When a young man, passion-laden,
In a chamber meets a maiden,
Then felicitous communion,
By love's strain between the twain,
Grows from forth their union;
For the game, it hath no name,
Of lips, arms, and hidden charms.
Nor can I here forbear from inserting another Poem of Privacy, bolder in its openness of speech, more glowing in its warmth of colouring. If excuse should be pleaded or the translation and reproduction of this distinctly Pagan ditty, it must be found in the singularity of its motive, which is as unmedieval as could be desired by the bitterest detractor of medieval sentiment. We seem, while reading it, to have before our eyes the Venetian picture of a Venus, while the almost prosaic particularity of description illustrates what I have said above about the detailed realism of the Goliardic style.
FLORA.
No. 34.
Rudely blows the winter blast,
Withered leaves are falling fast,
Cold hath hushed the birds at last.
While the heavens were warm and glowing,
Nature's offspring loved in May;
But man's heart no debt is owing
To such change of month or day
As the dumb brute-beasts obey.
Oh, the joys of this possessing!
How unspeakable the blessing
That my Flora yields to-day!
Labour long I did not rue,
Ere I won my wages due,
And the prize I played for drew.
Flora with her brows of laughter,
Gazing on me, breathing bliss,
Draws my yearning spirit after,
Sucks my soul forth in a kiss:
Where's the pastime matched with this?
Oh, the joys of this possessing!
How unspeakable the blessing
Of my Flora's loveliness!