Poems

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I wish you were here! Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am drest in your favourite colour-
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,

The necklace you fasten'd askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A Darling as you?

It was you that first told me of Browning,-
That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due,
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A Poet as you!

I heard how you shot at The Beeches,

I saw how you rode Chanticleer,

I have read the report of your speeches,
And echo'd the echoing cheer:
There's a whisper of hearts you are
breaking,

Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Folly is making
Her Idol of you!

Alas for the World, and its dearly

Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless Miss;
But, perhaps, one is best with "a measure
Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My Darling, to you!

I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know "Janet's Repen- Your whim is for frolic and fashion,

tance?"

I am reading Sir Waverley Scott. That story of Edgar and Lucy,

How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning
A Poet whose garland endures;-

Your taste is for letters and art;
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart:
Lay it by in some sacred deposit

For relics-we all have a few!
Love, some day they'll print it, because it
Was written to You.

Frederick Locker.

A LETTER OF ADVICE.

FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA
VAVASOUR, IN LONDON.

You tell me you're promised a lover,

My own Araminta, next week; Why cannot my fancy discover

The hue of his coat and his cheek? Alas! if he look like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,

Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say "No!"

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion," Taught us both how to sing and to

speak,

And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:
You gave me a ring for a token;
I wear it wherever I go;

I gave you a chain,-is it broken?
My own Araminta, say "No!"

Oh, think of our favourite cottage,

And think of our dear "Lalla Rookh!" How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,

And drank of the stream from the

brook;

How fondly our loving lips falter'd

"What further can grandeur bestow?" My heart is the same;-is yours alter'd? My own Araminta, say "No!"

Remember the thrilling romances

We read on the bank in the glen; Remember the suitors our fancies

Would picture for both of us then.

They wore the red cross on their shoulder, They had vanquish'd and pardon'd

their foe

Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?
My own Araminta, say "No!"

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage

Drove off with your cousin Justine, You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, And whisper'd, "How base she has been!"

You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband look'd so;
And you will not apostatize-will you?
My own Araminta, say "No!"

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;
We walk'd arm in arm to the road, love,
We look'd arm in arm to the sky;
And I said, "When a foreign postillion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian :

My own Araminta, say 'No!"
We parted! but sympathy's fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;

I muse o'er your exquisite letters,

And feel that your heart is mine still; And he who would share it with me, love,The richest of treasures below,If he's not what Orlando should be, love, My own Araminta, say "No!"

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"IF HE KNOWS NOT THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS."

POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED.

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look on his

grand knees,

If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blasts blow,

If he knows not the language of flowers, My own Araminta, say "No!"

He must walk-like a god of old story Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile-like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh! from its ivory portal

Like music his soft speech must flow! If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!" Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth; But give him a theme to write verse on, And see if he turns out his toe; If he's only an excellent person, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Winthrop M. Praed.

"BETWIXT THE PATHS A DAINTY BEAUTY STEPT."

Painted by Maud Humphrey.

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