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 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; 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 The lingerers in that happy grove ! Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take! Or where, by western hill or lake, And while the youthful lover's name Francis, Lord Jeffrey. CCCXLVIII. ALBUM VERSES. THOU record of the votive throng, 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! For even thus the man that roams Yet here, for once, I'll leave a trace, To say that here a resting-place So the poor pilgrim heedless strays, Washington Irving. CCCXLIX. BURNHAM-BEECHES. A BARD, dear muse, unapt to sing, 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, 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, If "sermons be in stones," I'll bet He'd find it easier far to get A hint from Burnham-beeches. Their glossy rind here winter stains, Gardens may boast a tempting show But daintiest truffles lurk below The boughs of Burnham-beeches. |