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 ! 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, 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 My wayworn heart has fondly sought. 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. Poets and painters, hither hie, His hand at Burnham-beeches. When monks, by holy Church well schooled, Skirting the convent's walls of yore, But shaven crown and cowl no more Here bards have mused, here lovers true O ne'er may woodman's axe resound, In the sweet shade that cools the ground Hold! tho' I'd fain be jingling on, CCCL. Henry Luttrell. A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. LOVE me, Sweet, with all thou art, Love me with thine open youth Can Heaven's truth be wanting? Love me with their lids, that fall Love me with thine hand, stretched out Love me with thy loitering foot,— Love me with thy voice, that turns Love me with thy blush, that burns Love me with thy thoughts, that roll Love me in thy gorgeous airs, When the world has crown'd thee; Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, With the angels round thee. Love me pure, as musers do, Love me gaily, fast and true, Through all hopes that keep us brave, Further off or nigher, Love me for the house and grave, And for something higher. Thus, if thou wilt prove me, Dear, I will love thee-half a year, As a man is able. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. CCCLI. OVER A COVERED SEAT IN THE FLOWERGARDEN AT HOLLAND HOUSE, Where the Author of the "Pleasures of Memory" customed to sit, appear the following lines. was ac HERE Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell, |