I think that friars and their hoods, I think, while zealots fast and frown, I think that, thanks to Paget's lance, I think the Pope is on his back; And, though 'tis fun to shake him, I think the Devil not so black As many people make him. I think that Love is like a play, Where tears and smiles are blended, Or like a faithless April day, Whose shine with shower is ended: And like a Highland plaid,—all stuff, I think the world, though dark it be, For those who seek the treasure; One friend not quite a hypocrite, I think poor beggars court St. Giles, And Death looks down with nods and smiles, I think some die upon the field, And some are laid beneath a shield, I think that very few have sigh'd When Fate at last has found them, Winthrop M. Praed. CCCXLII. A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H. 'Twas in heaven pronounced-it was mutter'd in hell, It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Catherine Fanshawe. CCCXLIII. CHARADE ON THE NAME OF THE POET CAMPBELL. COME from my First, ay, come The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die; Fight, as thy father fought; Fall, as thy father fell: Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; So, forward! and farewell! Toll ye my Second, toll; Fling high the flambeau's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night; The helm upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed; Call ye my Whole, go, call; And let him greet the sable pall Ay, call him by his name; No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave! Winthrop M. Praed. CCCXLIV. THE MAIDEN BLUSH. So look the mornings, when the sun So purest diaper doth thine, Robert Herrick. CCCXLV. DOLCE FAR NIENTE. SOOTH 'twere a pleasant life to lead, Pleasant to breathe beside a brook, And count the bubbles, love-worlds, there; To muse within some minstrel's book, Or watch the haunted air ; To slumber in some leafy nook,— And then, a draught of nature's wine, Give me to live with Love alone, And let the world go dine and dress; Laman Blanchard. CCCXLVI. NAMES. I ASKED my fair one happy day, 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 I have no voice for lady's bowers- Yet tho' my heart no more must bound No-though behind me now is clos'd Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take! Or where, by western hill or lake, |