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CHARADE ON THE NAME OF THE POET
COME from my First, ay, come ;
The battle dawn is nigh ;
Are calling thee to die;
Fall, as thy father fell:
So, forward! and farewell !
Fling high the flambeau's light;
Beneath the silent night;
The cross upon his breast,
Now take him to his rest!
Call ye my Whole, go, call;
The Lord of lute and lay;
With a noble song to-day:
No fitter hand may crave
Winthrop M. Praed.
THE MAIDEN BLUSH,
So look the mornings, when the sun
So purest diaper doth thine,
DOLCE FAR NIENTE.
Sooth ’twere a pleasant life to lead,
With nothing in the world to do,
The silent seasons thro':-
Sheep, -quiet, fond, and few!
And count the bubbles, love-worlds, there; To muse within some minstrel's book,
Or watch the haunted air ;-
Or idle anywhere.
And then, a draught of nature's wine,
A meal of summer's daintiest fruit; To take the air with forms divine;
Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute; Descending, if the night be fine,
In a star-parachute.
Give me to live with Love alone,
And let the world go dine and dress; For Love hath lowly haunts—a stone
Holds something meant to bless. If life's a flower, I choose my own'Tis “Love in Idleness."
I ASKED my fair one happy day,
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ;
Arethusa or Lucrece.
'Ah !” replied my gentle fair,
Choose thou whatever suits the line;
Samuel T. Coleridge.
Why write my name 'midst songs and flowers,
To meet the eye of lady gay?
For page like this no fitting lay.
At witching call of sprightly joys,
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.
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 ;
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,
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,
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.