Chapter 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 you whatever suits the line;
Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage or Doris,
Only, only call me thine.”
_Samuel T. Coleridge._

THE EXCHANGE

WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,—
I in my arms the maiden clasping:
I could not tell the reason why,
But oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father’s love she bade me gain;
I went, and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.
_Samuel T. Coleridge._

DEFIANCE

CATCH her and hold her if you can ...
Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread
In threatening guise above your head.
Ah! why did you not start before
She reached the porch and closed the door?
Simpleton! will you never learn
That girls and time will not return;
Of each you should have made the most;
Once gone, they are forever lost.
In vain your knuckles knock your brow,
In vain will you remember how
Like a slim brook the gamesome maid
Sparkled, and ran into the shade.
_Walter Savage Landor._

HER LIPS

OFTEN I have heard it said
That her lips are ruby-red.
Little heed I what they say,
I have seen as red as they.
Ere she smiled on other men,
Real rubies were they then.

When she kiss’d me once in play,
Rubies were less bright than they,
And less bright were those that shone
In the palace of the Sun.
Will they be as bright again?
Not if kiss’d by other men.
_Walter Savage Landor._

COMMINATION

TAKING my walk the other day,
I saw a little girl at play,
So pretty, ’twould not be amiss,
Thought I, to venture on a kiss.
Fiercely the little girl began—
“I wonder at you, nasty man!”
And all four fingers were applied,
And crimson pinafore beside,
To wipe what venom might remain,—
“Do if you dare the like again;
I have a mind to teach you better,”
And I too had a mind to let her.
_Walter Savage Landor._

MARGARET AND DORA

MARGARET’S beauteous—Grecian arts
Ne’er drew form completer,
Yet why, in my heart of hearts,
Hold I Dora’s sweeter?

Dora’s eyes of heavenly blue
Pass all paintings’ reach,
Ringdove’s notes are discord to
The music of her speech.

Artists Margaret’s smile receive,
And on canvas show it;
But for perfect worship leave
Dora to her poet.
_Thomas Campbell._

A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY

THERE’S a certain young lady,
Who’s just in her heyday,
And full of all mischief, I ween;
So teasing! so pleasing!
Capricious! delicious!
And you know very well whom I mean.

With an eye dark as night,
Yet than noonday more bright,
Was ever a black eye so keen?
It can thrill with a glance,
With a beam can entrance,
And you know very well whom I mean.

With a stately step—such as
You’d expect in a duchess—
And a brow might distinguish a queen,
With a mighty proud air,
That says “touch me who dare,”
And you know very well whom I mean.

With a toss of the head
That strikes one quite dead,
But a smile to revive one again;
That toss so appalling!
That smile so enthralling!
And you know very well whom I mean.

Confound her! devil take her!—
A cruel heart-breaker—
But hold! see that smile so serene.
God love her! God bless her!
May nothing distress her!
You know very well whom I mean.

Heaven help the adorer
Who happens to bore her,
The lover who wakens her spleen;
But too blest for a sinner
Is he who shall win her,
And you know very well whom I mean.
_Washington Irving._

SONG

WHO has robbed the ocean cave,
To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who from India’s distant wave
For thee those pearly treasures drew?
Who from yonder orient sky
Stole the morning of thine eye?

Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
On thy breath their fragrance borne.
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne’er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
Nor in the circling air, a heart.
Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh, take that heart from me.
_John Shaw._

THE TIME I’VE LOST IN WOOING

THE time I’ve lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies
In woman’s eyes,
Has been my heart’s undoing.
Tho’ wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn’d the lore she brought me,
My only books
Were woman’s looks,
And folly’s all they taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the sprite
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that’s haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me;
But when the spell was on me,
If once their ray
Was turn’d away,
O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No—vain, alas! th’ endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever;—
Poor Wisdom’s chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.
_Thomas Moore._

WHEN I LOVED YOU

WHEN I loved you, I can’t but allow
I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it!

Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off,
Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you is pleasant enough,
And oh! ’tis delicious to hate you!
_Thomas Moore._

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY

REASON, and Folly, and Beauty, they say
Went on a party of pleasure one day:
Folly play’d
Around the maid,
The bells of his cap rang merrily out;
While Reason took
To his sermon-book—
O! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt,
Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage,
Turn’d for a moment to Reason’s dull page,
Till Folly said,
“Look here, sweet maid!”—
The sight of his cap brought her back to herself,
While Reason read
His leaves of lead,
With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
No,—no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly’s gay cap;
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap—
“There it is,”
Quoth Folly, “old quiz!”
(Folly was always good-natured, ’tis said.)
“Under the sun
There’s no such fun,
As Reason with my cap and bells on his head,
Reason with my cap and bells on his head!”

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,
That Beauty now liked him still less than before:
While Folly took
Old Reason’s book,
And twisted the leaves in a cap of such _ton_,
That Beauty vow’d
(Tho’ not aloud)
She liked him still better in that than his own,
Yes,—liked him still better in that than his own.
_Thomas Moore._

TIRESOME SPRING!