The Home Book of Verse — Volume 2
Public-domain ebook
The Home Book of Verse — Volume 2
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Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #2620.
About this book
Burton Egbert Stevenson’s The Home Book of Verse – Volume 2 is a modest anthology that gathers a wide range of English‑language poems on love, from the Elizabethan stage to the early nineteenth century. The collection opens with a playful re‑creation of Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost, followed by a series of imitative pieces that echo Ben Jonson, John Fletcher and other dramatists, each treating love as a mischievous sprite or a fatal fire. The selections then drift into more reflective verses by poets such as Richard Crashaw, John Dryden and James Thomson, before closing with lyrical songs by Thomas Moore, Leigh Hunt and Thomas Campbell. Throughout, the anthology maintains a single thematic focus, love’s many guises, while offering a snapshot of how the subject was handled across centuries of English poetry.
The voice in this volume is unmistakably that of a nineteenth‑century editor who prized formal rhyme, classical allusion and moralizing commentary. The language is ornate, often employing archaic diction and elaborate metaphors that recall the poetic conventions of the Restoration and Romantic eras. Readers who enjoy the rhythmic regularity of rhymed couplets, the theatrical flair of early modern drama, and the sentimental tone of Victorian verse will find the book rewarding. It also appeals to educators and young readers seeking a compact survey of historical attitudes toward love, presented in a style that feels both scholarly and accessible.
Characters in The Home Book of Verse — Volume 2
- JoveMajestic bearded Roman emperor in flowing white toga, golden laurel crown, regal bearing
- JunoElegant Roman matron in richly embroidered crimson gown, pearl necklace, diadem of stars
- VenusGraceful goddess with golden hair, ivory drapery, subtle smile, holding a rose
The opening · free to read
VENUS' RUNAWAY From "The Hue and Cry After Cupid"
Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say? He is Venus' runaway.
She that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kiss, How or where herself would wish: But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another.
He hath marks about him plenty: You shall know him among twenty. All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
At his sight, the sun hath turned, Neptune in the waters burned; Hell hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook his seat: From the centre to the sky, Are his trophies reared high.
Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip, Over liver, lights, and heart, But not stay in any part; But if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself in kisses.
He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts; where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.
Still the fairest are his fuel. When his days are to be cruel, Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood: Naught but wounds his hands doth season, And he hates none like to Reason.
Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. All his practice is deceit; Every gift it is a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears; And most treason in his tears.
Idle minutes are his reign; Then, the straggler makes his gain By presenting maids with toys, And would have ye think them joys: 'Tis the ambition of the elf To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him; Since you hear his falser play, And that he's Venus' runaway.
WHAT IS LOVE? From "The Captain"
Tell me, dearest, what is love? 'Tis a lightning from above; 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 'Tis a boy they call Desire. 'Tis a grave, Gapes to have Those poor fools that long to prove.
Tell me more, are women true? Yes, some are, and some as you. Some are willing, some are strange, Since you men first taught to change. And till troth Be in both, All shall love, to love anew.
Tell me more yet, can they grieve? Yes, and sicken sore, but live, And be wise, and delay, When you men are wise as they. Then I see, Faith will be Never till they both believe.
LOVE'S EMBLEMS From "Valentinian"
Now the lusty spring is seen; Golden yellow, gaudy blue, Daintily invite the view: Everywhere on every green Roses blushing as they blow, And enticing men to pull, Lilies whiter than the snow, Woodbines of sweet honey full: All love's emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not plucked, we die."
Yet the lusty spring hath stayed; Blushing red and purest white Daintily to love invite Every woman, every maid: Cherries kissing as they grow, And inviting men to taste, Apples even ripe below, Winding gently to the waist: All love's emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not plucked, we die."
THE POWER OF LOVE From "Valentinian"
Hear, ye ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples and be wise: Fair Callisto was a nun; Leda, sailing on the stream To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan; Danae, in a brazen tower, Where no love was, loved a shower.
Hear, ye ladies that are coy, What the mighty Love can do; Fear the fierceness of the boy: The chaste Moon he makes to woo; Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires, Doting at the altar dies; Ilion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire.
Advice to a Lover
The sea hath many thousand sands, The sun hath motes as many; The sky is full of stars, and Love As full of woes as any: Believe me, that do know the elf, And make no trial by thyself!
It is in truth a pretty toy For babes to play withal: But O, the honies of our youth Are oft our age's gall: Self-proof in time will make thee know He was a prophet told thee so:
A prophet that, Cassandra-like, Tells truth without belief; For headstrong Youth will run his race, Although his goal be grief: - Love's Martyr, when his heat is past, Proves Care's Confessor at the last.
Love's Horoscope
Love, brave Virtue's younger brother, Erst hath made my heart a mother, She consults the anxious spheres, To calculate her young son's years; She asks if sad or saving powers Gave omen to his infant hours; She asks each star that then stood by If poor Love shall live or die.
Ah, my heart! is that the way? Are these the beams that rule thy day? Thou know'st a face in whose each look Beauty lays ope Love's fortune-book, On whose fair revolutions wait The obsequious motions of Love's fate. Ah, my heart! her eyes and she Have taught thee new astrology. Howe'er Love's native hours were set, Whatever starry synod met, 'Tis in the mercy of her eye, If poor Love shall live or die.
If those sharp rays, putting on Points of death, bid Love be gone; - Though the heavens in council sate To crown an uncontrolled fate; Though their best aspects twined upon The kindest constellation, Cast amorous glances on its birth, And whispered the confederate earth To pave his paths with all the good That warms the bed of youth and blood: - Love has no plea against her eye; Beauty frowns, and Love must die.
But if her milder influence move, And gild the hopes of humble Love; - Though heaven's inauspicious eye Lay black on Love's nativity; Though every diamond in Jove's crown Fixed his forehead to a frown; - Her eye a strong appeal can give, Beauty smiles, and Love shall live.
O, if Love shall live, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live.
Or, if Love shall die, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his funeral nest? While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die!
Ah, how sweet it is to love! Ah, how gay is young Desire! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire! Pains of Love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart: Even the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart: Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.
Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again: If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
Song
Love still has something of the sea, From whence his Mother rose; No time his slaves from doubt can free, Nor give their thoughts repose.
They are becalmed in clearest days, And in rough weather tossed; They wither under cold delays, Or are in tempests lost.
One while they seem to touch the port, Then straight into the main Some angry wind, in cruel sport, The vessel drives again.
At first Disdain and Pride they fear, Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, In a more dreadful shape.
By such degrees to joy they come, And are so long withstood, So slowly they receive the sum, It hardly does them good.
'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; And to defer a joy, Believe me, gentle Celemene, Offends the winged boy.
An hundred thousand oaths your fears, Perhaps, would not remove; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love.
Sits long and arises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.
Song
Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charmed me, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harmed me: Yet when this thought doth come, - Love is the perfect sum Of all delight. I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write.
O love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee.
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