3/tIat. 47 
When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, 
My purest, first-horn love, and dearest treasure, 
My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; 
Nor thought that any love again might be 
So deep and strong, as that I felt for thee. 
Mrs. Morton. 
I love thee,—and I live! The moon, 
Who sees me from her calm above, 
The wind, who weaves her dim, soft tune 
About me, know how much I love! 
Naught else, save night, and the lonely hour, 
E’er heard my passion wild and strong; 
Even thou yet deem’st not of thy power, 
Unless thou read’st aright my song! 
Barry Cornwall. 
She loves—but knows not whom she loves, 
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;— 
Like one who meets, in Indian groves, 
Some beauteous bird without a name, 
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, 
Erom isles in the undiscovered seas, 
To show his plumage for a day 
To wondering eyes, and wing away! 
Moore. 
