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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;

Now take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, go, call;

The Lord of lute and lay;
And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day:
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.



So look the mornings, when the sun
Paints them with fresh vermilion ;
So cherries blush, and Catherine pears,
And apricots, in youthful years ;
So corals look more lovely red,
And rubies lately polished ;

So purest diaper doth thine,
Stained by the beams of claret wine;
As Julia looks, when she doth dress
Her either cheek with bashfulness.

Robert Herrick.



Sooth ’twere a pleasant life to lead,

With nothing in the world to do,
But just to blow a shepherd's reed,

The silent seasons thro':-
And just to drive a flock to feed,

Sheep, -quiet, fond, and few!
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,-

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."

Laman Blanchard.



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.



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.

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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.

Washington Irving.



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.

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