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.
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.
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.
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.
OVER A COVERED SEAT IN THE FLOWERGARDEN AT HOLLAND HOUSE,
Where the Author of the "Pleasures of Memory" was ac customed to sit, appear the following lines.
HERE Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell,
To me, those pleasures that he sang so well.
Lord Holland.
ON SAMUEL ROGERS SEAT IN THE GARDEN AT HOLLAND HOUSE.
How happily shelter'd is he who reposes
In this haunt of the poet, o'ershadow'd with roses,
While the sun is rejoicing, unclouded, on high,
And summer's full majesty reigns in the sky!
Let me in, and be seated. I'll try if, thus placed,
I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste,
Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain,
Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain.
Well-now I am fairly install'd in the bower,
How lovely the scene! How propitious the hour!
The breeze is perfumed by the hawthorn it stirs ;
All is beauty around me ;-but nothing occurs,
Not a thought, I protest, though I'm here and alone,
Not a line can I hit on, that Rogers would own,
Though my senses are ravish'd, my feelings in tune,
And Holland's my host, and the season is June.
The trial is ended. Nor garden, nor grove,
Though poets amid them may linger or rove,
Nor a seat e'en so hallow'd as this can impart
The fancy and fire that must spring from the heart.
So I rose, since the Muses continue to frown,
No more of a poet than when I sat down ;
While Rogers, on whom they look kindly, can strike
Their lyre, at all times, in all places, alike.
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.
YEARS-years ago,-ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise or witty,
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty ;-
Years-years ago,—while all my joy
Was in my fowling-piece and filly,—
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lily.
|