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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,
As yonder ruin teaches.
Shall darken Burnham-beeches.
Have dealt in softest speeches,
Their gold o'er Burnham-beeches.
Nor tempest, making breaches
Beneath our Burnham-beeches.
My power no further reaches-
A MAN'S RE IREMENTS. Love me, Sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing :
Love me in full being.
In its frank surrender ;
With its silence tender.
Made for earnest granting ;
Can Heaven's truth be wanting?
Love me with their lids, that fall
Snow-like at first meeting ;
Neighbours then see beating.
Freely, open-minded :
Hearing one behind it.
Sudden faint above me ;
When I murmur, Love me !
Break it to love-sighing ;
On through living-dying.
When the world has crown'd thee;
With the angels round thee.
Up the woodlands shady;
As a winsome lady.
Further off or nigher,
And for something higher.
Woman's love no fable,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
OVER A COVERED SEAT IN THE FLOWER.
GARDEN AT HOLLAND HOUSE, Where the Author of the “ Pleasures of Memory” was ace
customed to sit, appear the following lines. HERE Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell, To me, those pleasures that he sang so well.
ON SAMUEL ROGERS SEAT IN THE GARDEN
AT HOLLAND HOUSE.
How happily shelter'd is he who reposes
Let me in, and be seated. —I'll try if, thus placed,
Well—now I am fairly install'd in the bower,
The trial is ended. Nor garden, nor grove,
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM,
,—ere yet my dreams
Or yawn’d o'er this infernal Chitty ;--
Was in my fowling-piece and filly, ---
I fell in love with Laura Lily.
I saw her at the County Ball :
There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall
Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that set young hearts romancing ; She was our queen, our rose, our star ;
And then she danced-0 Heaven, her dancing!
Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
Her voice was exquisitely tender ; Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender! Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,
And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd, -of politics or prayers, —
Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers—or of dancing bears,
Of battles—or the last new bonnets,
To me it matter'd not a tittle ;
I might have thought they murmur'd Little.
I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them to the Sunday Journal :
That ancient ladies have no feeling :
See any happiness in kneeling ?
She was the daughter of a Dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen,
Whose colour was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year
Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer,
And Lord Lieutenant of the County.
But titles, and the three per cents.,
And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,
Oh what are they to love's sensations ? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks—
Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses He cares as little for the Stocks,
As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.
She sketch'd ; the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanized ; I envied each
Young blossom in her boudoir fading :
She made the Catalani jealous :
For hours and hours to blow the bellows.
She kept an album, too, at home,
Well fill'd with all an album's glories ; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,
Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter,
And recipes for elder-water.
Her steps were watch’d, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted;
As if the taxes were abolish'd ;
As if the Opera were demolish'd.
I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first-the only one
Her heart had thought of for a minute. — I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, -and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded !