CCCXLVI.

NAMES.

I ASKED my fair one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay;

By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Neæra, Chloris,

Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,

Arethusa or Lucrece.

"Ah!" replied my gentle fair,

"Beloved, what are names but air?

Choose thou whatever suits the line;

Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,

Call me Lalage or Doris,

Only, only call me thine."

Samuel T. Coleridge.

CCCXLVII.

VERSES.

WHY write my name 'midst songs and flowers
To meet the eye of lady gay?

I have no voice for lady's bowers-
For page like this no fitting lay.

Yet tho' my heart no more must bound
At witching call of sprightly joys,
Mine is the brow that never frown'd
On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes.

No-though behind me now is clos'd
The youthful paradise of Love,
Yet can I bless, with soul compos'd,

The lingerers in that happy grove !

Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take !
Where'er amid its charms you roam;
Or where, by western hill or lake,
You brighten a serener home.

And while the youthful lover's name
Here with the sister beauty's blends,
Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim,
That to their list would add a friend's !

Francis, Lord Jeffrey.

CCCXLVIII.

ALBUM VERSES.

THOU record of the votive throng,
That fondly seek this fairy shrine,
And pay the tribute of a song

Where worth and loveliness combine,

What boots that I, a vagrant wight

From clime to clime still wandering on,
Upon thy friendly page should write
-Who'll think of me when I am gone?

Go plough the wave, and sow the sand!
Throw seed to ev'ry wind that blows;
Along the highway strew thy hand,
And fatten on the crop that grows.

For even thus the man that roams
On heedless hearts his feeling spends;
Strange tenant of a thousand homes,
And friendless, with ten thousand friends!

Yet here, for once, I'll leave a trace,
To ask in after times a thought!

To say that here a resting-place

My wayworn heart has fondly sought.

So the poor pilgrim heedless strays,
Unmoved, thro' many a region fair;
But at some shrine his tribute pays
To tell that he has worshipp'd there.

Washington Irving.

CCCXLIX.

BURNHAM-BEECHES.

A BARD, dear muse, unapt to sing,
Your friendly aid beseeches.
Help me to touch the lyric string,
In praise of Burnham-beeches.

What tho' my tributary lines

Be less like Pope's than Creech's, The theme, if not the poet, shines, So bright are Burnham-beeches.

O'er many a dell and upland walk,
Their sylvan beauty reaches,
Of Birnam-wood let Scotland talk,
While we've our Burnham-beeches.

Oft do I linger, oft return,

(Say, who my taste impeaches)

Where holly, juniper, and fern,

Spring up round Burnham-beeches.

Tho' deep embower'd their shades among,
The owl at midnight screeches,
Birds of far merrier, sweeter song,
Enliven Burnham-beeches.

If "sermons be in stones," I'll bet
Our vicar, when he preaches,

He'd find it easier far to get

A hint from Burnham-beeches.

Their glossy rind here winter stains,
Here the hot solstice bleaches.
Bow, stubborn oaks ! bow, graceful planes
Ye match not Burnham-beeches.

Gardens may boast a tempting show
Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches,

But daintiest truffles lurk below

The boughs of Burnham-beeches.

Poets and painters, hither hie,
Here ample room for each is
With pencil and with pen to try

His hand at Burnham-beeches.

When monks, by holy Church well schooled,
Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches,
Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled,
Then flourished Burnham-beeches,

Skirting the convent's walls of yore,
As yonder ruin teaches.

But shaven crown and cowl no more
Shall darken Burnham-beeches.

Here bards have mused, here lovers true
Have dealt in softest speeches,
While suns declined, and, parting, threw
Their gold o'er Burnham-beeches.

O ne'er may woodman's axe resound,
Nor tempest, making breaches

In the sweet shade that cools the ground
Beneath our Burnham-beeches.

Hold! tho' I'd fain be jingling on,
My power no further reaches-
Again that rhyme ? enough-I've done,
Farewell to Burnham-beeches.

CCCL.

Henry Luttrell.

A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS.

LOVE me, Sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing:
Love me in the lightest part,
Love me in full being.

Love me with thine open youth
In its frank surrender ;
With the vowing of thy mouth,
With its silence tender.
Love me with thine azure eyes,
Made for earnest granting;
Taking colour from the skies,-

Can Heaven's truth be wanting?

Love me with their lids, that fall
Snow-like at first meeting;
Love me with thine heart, that all
Neighbours then see beating.

Love me with thine hand, stretched out
Freely, open-minded :

Love me with thy loitering foot,—
Hearing one behind it.

Love me with thy voice, that turns
Sudden faint above me;

Love me with thy blush, that burns
When I murmur, Love me!
Love me with thy thinking soul,
Break it to love-sighing ;

Love me with thy thoughts, that roll
On through living-dying.

Love me in thy gorgeous airs,

When the world has crown'd thee;

Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,

With the angels round thee.

Love me pure, as musers do,
Up the woodlands shady;

Love me gaily, fast and true,
As a winsome lady.

Through all hopes that keep us brave,

Further off or nigher,

Love me for the house and grave,

And for something higher.

Thus, if thou wilt prove me, Dear,
Woman's love no fable,

I will love thee-half a year,

As a man is able.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

CCCLI.

OVER A COVERED SEAT IN THE FLOWERGARDEN AT HOLLAND HOUSE,

Where the Author of the "Pleasures of Memory" customed to sit, appear the following lines.

was ac

HERE Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell,
To me, those pleasures that he sang so well.
Lord Holland.