Her tender limbs embrace,
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace:
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole:
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed,
And sighed his very soul.
As flies the partridge from the brake
On fear-inspirèd wings,
So Nelly, starting, half awake,
Away affrighted springs:
But Willie followed,—as he should;
He overtook her in the wood:
He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid
Forgiving all and good.
BURNS.
BONNIE PEGGY ALISON.
CHORUS.
I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
And I’ll kiss thee o’er again,
And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O!
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!
When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O!
I seek nae mair o’ heaven to share
Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O!
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I’m thine forever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!
BURNS.
DINNA KISS AFORE FOLK.
[An old Scotch song.]
Behave yoursel’ afore folk,
And dinna be sae rude to me
As kiss me sae afore folk.
It’s no through hatred o’ a kiss
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But ah! I tak’ it sae amiss
To be sae teased afore folk.
Behave yoursel’ afore folk;
When we’re alane, ye may tak’ ane,
But ne’er a ane afore folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae,—I dinna care,—
But ne’er again gar ’t blush sae sair
As ye hae dune afore folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet:
Sic tales, I doubt, are a deceit;
At any rate, it’s hardly meet
To pree their sweets afore folk.
But, gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kissed,
Gae get a license frae the priest,
And mak’ me yours afore folk;
Behave yourself afore folk,
And when we’re ane, baith flesh and bane,
Ye may tak’ ten afore folk.
DON JUAN AND HAIDEE.
They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
They gazed upon the glittering sea below,
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low,
And saw each other’s dark eyes darting light
Into each other—and, beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled from above;
Such kisses as belong to early days,
When heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,
And the blood’s lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a heart-quake,—for a kiss’s strength,
I think, it must be reckoned by its length.
By length I mean duration; theirs endured
Heaven knows how long—no doubt they never reckoned;
And if they had, they could not have secured
The sum of their sensations to a second:
They had not spoken; but they felt allured,
As if their souls and lips each other beckoned,
Which being joined, like swarming bees they clung—
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.
BYRON.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture that dwells on the first kiss of love!
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove,
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more; bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art;
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
I court the effusions that spring from the heart
Which throbs with delight at the first kiss of love.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams:
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove:
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past,—
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove,—
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
BYRON.
TEACHER AND PUPIL.
Give me, my love, that billing kiss
I taught you one delicious night,
When, turning epicures in bliss,
We tried inventions of delight.
Come, gently steal my lips along,
And let your lips in murmurs move;
Ah, no!—again—that kiss was wrong:
How can you be so dull, my love?
“Cease, cease!” the blushing girl replied,—
And in her milky arms she caught me;
“How can you thus your pupil chide?
You know _’twas in the dark_ you taught me!”
MOORE.
THINE AT LAST.
Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,
On which my soul’s beloved swore
That there should come a time of bliss
When she would mock my hopes no more;
And fancy shall thy glow renew,
In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,
And none shall steal thy holy dew
Till thou’rt absolved by rapture’s rite.
Sweet hours that are to make me blest,
Oh! fly, like breezes, to the goal,
And let my love, my more than soul,
Come panting to this fevered breast;
And while in every glance I drink
The rich o’erflowings of her mind,
Oh! let her all impassioned sink,
In sweet abandonment resigned,
Blushing for all our struggles past,
And murmuring, “I am thine at last!”
MOORE.
JULIA’S KISS.
When infant Bliss in roses slept,
Cupid upon his slumber crept,
And, while a balmy sigh he stole,
Exhaling from the infant’s soul,
He smiling said, “With this, with this
I’ll scent my Julia’s burning kiss!”
Nay, more: he stole to Venus’ bed,
Ere yet the sanguine flush had fled
Which Love’s divinest, dearest flame
Had kindled through her panting frame.
Her soul still dwelt on memory’s themes,
Still floated in voluptuous dreams;
And every joy she felt before
In slumber now was acting o’er.
From her ripe lips, which seemed to thrill
As in the war of kisses still,
And amorous to each other clung,
He stole the dew that trembling hung,
And smiling said, “With this, with this
I’ll bathe my Julia’s burning kiss!”
MOORE.
TO A LADY ON HER TRANSLATION OF VOITURE’S “KISS.”
“Mon âme sur ma lèvre était lors tout entière,
Pour savourer le miel qui sur la vôtre était;
Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
Tant de ce doux plaisir l’amorce l’arrêtoit!”
VOITURE.
How heavenly was the poet’s doom,
To breathe his spirit through a kiss,
And lose within so sweet a tomb
The trembling messenger of bliss!
And, ah! his soul returned to feel
That it _again_ could ravished be;
For in the kiss that thou didst steal,
His life and soul have fled to thee!
MOORE.
THE KISS.
One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed;
Your scorn the little boon denied.
Ah, why refuse the blameless bliss?
Can danger lurk within a kiss?
Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,
The spirit of the western gale,
At morning’s break, at evening’s close,
Inhales the sweetness of the rose,
And hovers o’er th’ uninjured bloom,
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling
Vigor to the zephyr’s wing,
And she the glitter of the dew
Scatters on the rose’s hue.
Bashful, lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red.
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening rose:
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of love!
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well pleased I hear the whispered “No!”
The whispered “No!” how little meant,
Sweet falsehood that endears consent!
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,
And tempts, with feigned dissuasive coy,
The gentle violence of the joy.
COLERIDGE.
TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER.
Love thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again:
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!
Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee:
Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!
Press her lips the while they glow
With love that they have often told:
Hereafter thou mayst press in woe
And kiss them till thine own are cold.
Press her lips the while they glow!
Oh, revere her raven hair!
Although it be not silver-gray,
Too early death, led on by care,
May snatch save one dear lock away.
Oh, revere her raven hair!
Pray for her at eve and morn,
That Heaven may long the stroke defer;
For thou mayst live the hour forlorn
When thou wilt ask to die with her.
Pray for her at eve and morn!
THOMAS HOOD.
KISSES.
My heart is beating with all things that are,
My blood is wild unrest;
With what a passion pants yon eager star
Upon the water’s breast!
Clasped in the air’s soft arms the world doth sleep;
Asleep its moving seas, its humming lands;
With what a hungry lip the ocean deep
Lappeth forever the white-breasted sands!
What love is in the moon’s eternal eyes,
Leaning unto the earth from out the midnight skies!
Thy large dark eyes are wide upon my brow,
Filled with as tender light
As yon low moon doth fill the heavens now,
This mellow autumn night!
On the late flowers I linger at thy feet;
I tremble when I touch thy garment’s rim;
I clasp thy waist, I feel thy bosom’s beat,—
Oh, kiss me into faintness sweet and dim!
Thou leanest to me as a swelling peach,
Full-juiced and mellow, leaneth to the taker’s reach.
Thy hair is loosened by that kiss you gave;
It floods my shoulders o’er;
Another yet! Oh, as a weary wave
Subsides upon the shore,
My hungry being, with its hopes, its fears,
My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest,
Yet strong as is despair, as weak as tears,
Doth faint upon thy breast!
I feel thy clasping arms, my cheek is wet
With thy rich tears. One kiss, sweet, sweet. Another yet!
ALEXANDER SMITH.
GIVE ME KISSES.
Give me kisses—do not stay
Counting in that careful way;
All the coins your lips can print
Never will exhaust the mint.
Kiss me, then,
Every moment—and again!
Give me kisses—do not stop,
Measuring nectar by the drop;
Though to millions they amount,
They will never drain the fount.
Kiss me, then,
Every moment—and again!
Give me kisses—all is waste
Save the luxury we taste,
And for kissing—kisses live
Only when we take or give.
Kiss me, then,
Every moment—and again!
Give me kisses—though their worth
Far exceeds the gems of earth;
Never pearls so rich and pure
Cost so little, I am sure.
Kiss me, then,
Every moment—and again.
Give me kisses—nay, ’tis true,
I am just as rich as you,
And for every kiss I owe,
I can pay you back, you know.
Kiss me, then,
Every moment—and again!
SAXE.
TO MY LOVE.
Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;
Malice has ever a vigilant ear:
What if Malice were lurking near?
Kiss me, dear!
Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.
Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;
Envy too has a watchful ear:
What if Envy should chance to hear?
Kiss me, dear!
Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.
Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;
Trust me, darling, the time is near
When lovers may love with never a fear:
Kiss me, dear!
Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.
SAXE.
A DINNER AND A KISS.
“I have brought your dinner, father,”
The blacksmith’s daughter said,
As she took from her arm the kettle
And lifted its shining lid.
“There is not any pie or pudding,
So I will give you this.”
And upon the toil-worn forehead
She left the childish kiss.
The blacksmith took off his apron,
And dined in happy mood,
Wondering much at the savor
Hid in his humble food;
While all about him were visions
Full of prophetic bliss;
But he never thought of the magic
In his little daughter’s kiss.
And she, with her kettle swinging,
Merrily trudged away,
Stopping at sight of a squirrel,
Catching some wild bird’s lay.
And I thought, how many a shadow
Of life and fate we would miss,
If always our frugal dinners
Were seasoned with a kiss.
A HINT.
Our Daisy lay down
In her little night-gown,
And kissed me again and again,
On forehead and cheek,
On lips that would speak,
But found themselves shut, to their gain.
Then, foolish, absurd,
To utter a word,
I asked her the question so old,
That wife and that lover
Ask over and over,
As if they were surer when told!
There, close at her side,
“Do you love me?” I cried;
She lifted her golden-crowned head;
A puzzled surprise
Shone in her gray eyes—
“Why, that’s why I kiss you!” she said.
ANNA C. BRACKETT.
THROWING KISSES.
Girlie on the stairway, mother up above;
Girlie’s eyes and mother’s full of tender love;
Girlie’s little fingers throw a hurrying kiss
Right to mother, loving, fearing not to miss;
Mother throws one downward to her Golden-hair;
Girlie cries, “They’re meeting, mother, in the air.”
By-and-by the girlie stands all, all alone,
Looking sadly upward for the mother, gone
Up the heavenly stairway. Girlie, standing here,
Knows the mother surely surely must be near.
If she throws her kisses up the golden stair,
Will they meet the mother’s half-way in the air?
MINNIE SLADE.
KISSES TO-DAY.
Banish, O maiden, thy fears of to-morrow;
Dash from thy cheek, love, the tear-drop of sorrow;
Pleasure flies swiftly and sweetly away:
Tears for to-morrow, but kisses to-day,—
Kisses, love.
Hear me, then, dearest, thy doubts gently chiding:
Know’st thou not true love is ever confiding?
Why snatch from Cupid his bandage away?
Love sees no morrow, then kiss me to-day.
Kiss me, love.
CONSECRATION.—A LOVER’S MOOD.
All the kisses that I have given,
I grudge from my soul to-day,
And of all I have ever taken,
I would wipe the thought away.
How I wish my lips had been hermits,
Held apart from kith and kin,
That fresh from God’s holy service
To Love’s they might enter in!
MISS BATES.
“UNDER THE ROSE.”
[A Platonic Kiss.]
You kissed me, as if roses slipped
Their rose-bud necklaces, and blew
Such breaths as never yet have dipped
The bee in fragrance over-shoe,
While rose-leaves of their color stripped
Themselves to make a blush for you.
Nor chide with such a cold constraint,
As if you laid the rose in snow;
For this the summer stores her paint,
The dappled twilights overflow
With motley colors, pied and quaint,
For kisses that in flowers do grow.
Nor pout and tease: you did not mean
So sweet a thing. Abide this test:
In open markets grades are seen
Of good and bad, in price expressed;
The buyer’s purse must choose between;
But when we give, we give the best.
Yet if that color, sweet as bees,
Of flower-flushes teases, see
How we can pluck such thorns as these,
That bleed in blushes, easily;
For, kiss me, sweet, just as you please,
I’ll take it as it pleases me.
HARNEY.
PLATONIC KISSES.
“What are they?” birdie, do you ask?
Your forehead wears a puckered line,
Oh! now you’ve found a dreadful task
Even for a learnèd head like mine.
Some questions are so hard! Ah, well,
If even Plato’s self were here,
The sage, I fancy, could not tell
The riddle that you ask me, dear.
My birdie, Plato was a sage,
The first to find he had a soul;
The life we live from youth to age,
His wisdom taught, was not the whole
And many theories Plato had
To rule the impulse of mankind,
Controlling all the base and bad
Through stern dominion of the mind.
And love, my birdie, Plato said,
Should be communion of the soul,
To glowing passion cold and dead,
And intellect should rule the whole.
Each soul another soul might find,
And spirit-intercourse reveal
A pure emotion of the mind,
Like that we think the angels feel.
But what Platonic kisses were
I doubt if Plato ever knew,—
Not like, my birdie, I infer,
The long, sweet kisses I give you,
And those you give me back again,
Repeated oft, and never done;
Not thus, I fancy, could it be
Platonic brides were ever won.
Philosophy, perhaps, had charms
To satisfy great Athens’ sage,
Indifferent to his lady’s arms,—
Two heads bent o’er one musty page.
But moderns, made of sterner stuff,
Would clothe it with a gentler light,
And, soul-communion not enough,
Both sense and spirit would unite.
Love’s sweetest charms they would not miss,
Nor into earthly passion fall,
So talk of a Platonic kiss,
And thus contrive to get it all.
But fondest theories, birdie sweet,
Oft bring a harvest of regret.
Now come and sit here at my feet.
Well, have you understood me, pet?
I thought not. What a pair of eyes!
I’ll have to send you back to school.
If Plato’s spirit could arise,
We’d tell the ghost he was a fool.
Now lift your sweet lips up to mine;
I like the language that they speak;
I know the rhetoric is not fine,—
What dreadful work they’d make of Greek!
Ah, how I love your little form!
And now—be sure you sit quite still—
Just hold my left hand, soft and warm;
Don’t shake the one that drives the quill.
Let Plato crown his love with bays,
I’ll make you mistress of my life.
I’ll love you, birdie, all my days,
And crown you with the name of wife.
HOW IT HAPPENED.
I pray you pardon me, Elsie,
And smile that frown away
That dims the light of your lovely face
As thunder clouds the day.
For on the spur of the instant,
Before I thought, ’twas done,
And those great gray eyes flashed bright and cold,
Like an icicle in the sun.
I was thinking of the summer
When we were boys and girls,
And wandering in the blossoming woods,
And the gay winds romped with your curls;
And you seemed to me the same little girl
I kissed in the elder-path.
I kissed the little girl’s lips, and, alas!
I have roused a woman’s wrath.
There is not much to pardon,
For why were your lips so red?
The blonde curls fell in a shower of gold
From the proud, provoking head,
And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes
And played round the tender mouth
Rushed over my soul like a warm, sweet wind
That blows from the fragrant South.
And where, after all, is the harm done?
I believe we were made to be gay,
And all of youth not given to love
Is vainly squandered away,
And strewn through life-long labors,
Like gold in the desert sands,
Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows,
And the clasp of clinging hands.
And when you are old and lonely,
In memory’s magic shrine
You will see on your thin and wasting hands,
Like gems, those kisses of mine;
And when you muse at evening,
At the sound of some vanished name,
The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips
And kindle your heart to flame.
JOHN HAY.
IN AMBUSH.
Half hidden in the holly’s shade,
Dark with the weight of snow o’erlaid,
I see you plainly!
What plot are you two hatching now,
Lurking beneath the sheltering bough?
You’re hiding vainly!
But never mind—with eyes downcast,
I’ll let you think you have not passed
Before my vision.
“Let’s snowball him! ’twill be such fun!”
The words are whispered low by one,
In soft derision.
Ho! ho! so that’s your little plot!
You may be sure that I shall not
Attempt to foil it!
Besides, I can’t for very shame
Turn tail and run; and such a game,
’Twere sin to spoil it!
A warning shot,—it whizzes past!
Another,—fairly hit at last!
Nice warm work this is!
Well, fire away! Your stock runs low;
Reward must come at length, you know,—
Returns of kisses!
Bravo! I’ve caught you both at length!
In vain resist with all your strength,
And blushing faces!
Love’s toll, you know, ’s a warmer thing
Than making snowballs just to fling
From secret places!
A LONG-BRANCH EPISODE.
Upon the broad Atlantic sands
I saw a maiden and her lover,
Her dimpled fingers in his hands,
Her shy blue eyes the sea looked over;
With coy girl’s love to him she turned,
And said, “Dear,
Do you think that any one will know
That you have dared to kiss me so?”
Alone upon the pebbly strand
Break ocean swell and pale moonbeam;
The lovers are walking hand in hand
From the bluff to where the gas-lamps stream;
They reach the peopled colonnade:
Trembling, she said,
“Dear, I’m sure they all will know
That you have dared to kiss me so.”
The waltz floats through the casement low,
And the lovers stand at the open door;
The maid shyly whispers, “Will they know?”
Her eyes seem fastened to the floor:
Fond he looks down on the fair young face—
“All will see
That my arms are empty,” he said,
“And no kisses cling to your lips so red.”
They join the dancers’ merry whirl,
The room is filled with beauties fair;
With cheeks aflush and ruffled curl,
My maiden dances with absent air;
She fears that every one can tell.
Yet, I trow,
Only the lover and I could know
Which was the girl that had been kissed so.
THREE KISSES.
Three, only three, my darling,
Separate, solemn, slow;
Not like the swift and joyous ones
We used to know,
When we kissed because we loved each other,
Simply to taste love’s sweet,
And lavished our kisses as the summer
Lavishes heat;
But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung,
When hope and fear are spent,
And nothing is left to give, except
A sacrament!
First of the three, my darling,
Is sacred unto pain;
We have hurt each other often,
We shall again,—
When we pine because we miss each other,
And do not understand
How the written words are so much colder
Than eye and hand.
I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain
Which we may give or take;
Buried, forgiven before it comes,
For our love’s sake.
The second kiss, my darling,
Is full of joy’s sweet thrill;
We have blessed each other always,
We always will.
We shall reach until we feel each other,
Beyond all time and space;
We shall listen till we hear each other
In every place;
The earth is full of messengers
Which love sends to and fro;
I kiss thee, darling, for all joy
Which we shall know!
The last kiss, O my darling—
My love—I cannot see,
Through my tears, as I remember
What it may be.
We may die and never see each other,
Die with no time to give
Any sign that our hearts are faithful
To die, as live.
Token of what they will not see
Who see our parting breath,
This one last kiss, my darling, seals
The seal of death!
TOO OLD FOR KISSES.
My uncle Philip, hale old man,
Has children by the dozen;
Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate, and Ann—
How many call me “cousin”?
Good boys and girls, the best was Bess;
I bore her on my shoulder,
A little bit of loveliness
That never should grow older!
Her eyes had such a pleading way,
They seemed to say, “Don’t strike me;”
Then, growing bold, another day,
“I mean to make you like me.”
I liked my cousin, early, late;
Who likes not little misses?
She used to meet me at the gate,
Just old enough for kisses.
This was, I think, three years ago,—
Before I went to college;
I learned one thing there,—how to row,
A healthy sort of knowledge.
When I was plucked (we won the race),
And all was at an end there,
I thought of Uncle Philip’s place,
And every country friend there.
My cousin met me at the gate;
She looked five, ten years older,—
A tall young woman, still, sedate,
With manners coyer, colder.
She gave her hand with stately pride:
“Why, what a greeting this is!
You used to kiss me.” She replied,
“I am too old for kisses.”
I loved, I love my cousin Bess;
She’s always in my mind now,—
A full-blown bud of loveliness,
The rose of womankind now:
She must have suitors; old and young
Must bow their heads before her;
Vows must be made, and songs be sung,
By many a mad adorer!
But I must win her; she must give
To me her youth and beauty;
And I—to love her while I live
Will be my happy duty;
For she will love me soon or late,
And be my bliss of blisses,
Will come to meet me at the gate,
Nor be too old for kisses!
WEDDING SONG.
[Polonaise.]
Three suitors were with me to-day;
They proffered love and treasure.
The lordly one gave pleasant words,
And many ells of ribbon;
The second, plain of face and form,
He counted coin and jewels;
The third presented roses three,
And coupled them with kisses.
The first I fancied, and would greet
Him warmly, as a brother;
The second, gladly him I’d choose
To be my nearest neighbor;
But, oh, the third, of rosy gifts,
Who stifled me with kisses,—
I’d give to him these longing eyes,
And all that life possesses.
THE KISS AT THE DOOR.
When I took my leave last night,
Nellie—she could do no more—
Softly brought a candle-light
Just to show me to the door.
How it was I cannot tell,
When I felt her hand in mine,
Something said, “Why not as well
Press her pretty lips to thine?”
Then I clasped one hand quite tight,—
T’other held the light, you know,—
So that Nellie, helpless quite,
Felt she couldn’t say me “No.”
But she gave a little scream,
That did ne’er the bliss deny;
And—too brief the happy dream—
In went she, and out went I.
A KISS.
A kiss! oh, ’tis a magic spell
That wildly thrills the breast,
And bids it with emotion swell
When lip to lip is pressed;
’Tis friendship’s breath, affection’s seal,
And, though a transient bliss,
The proudest, coldest heart must feel
The rapture of a kiss.