III.

IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S

IN Christian world MARY the garland wears!
REBECCA Sweetens on a Hebrew's ear;
Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear;
And the light Gaul by amorous NINON Swears;
Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines!

What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round!
How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA Sound!
Of MARTHAS and of ABIGAILS few lines

Have bragged in verse. Of coarsest household stuff
Should homely JOAN be fashioned.
But can

You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN?
And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?
Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
These all than Saxon EDITH please me less.

IV.

WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE.

I was not trained in academic bowers,

And to those learned streams I nothing owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow;

Mine have been anything but studious hours.

Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers,
Myself a nurseling, Granta, of thy lap;

My brow seems tightening with the doctor's cap,
And I walk gowned; feel unusual powers!

Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech,

*

Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain,

And my skull teems with notions infinite.

Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach

Truths which transcend the searching schoolmen's

vein,

And half had staggered that stout Stagirite.†

The famous French logician.

† Aristotle.

CHARLES LLOYD.*

TO NOVEMBER.

DISMAL November! me it soothes to view,
At parting day, the scanty foliage fall

From the wet fruit-tree; or the gray stone-wall,
Whose cold films glisten with unwholesome dew;
To watch the yellow mists from the dank earth

Enfold the neighboring copse; while, as they pass, The silent rain-drops bend the long rank grass, Which wraps some blossom's unmaturéd birth. And through my cot's lone lattice, glimmering gray, The damp, chill evenings have a charm for me, Dismal November! for strange vacancy

Summoneth then my very heart away!

Till from mist-hidden spire comes the slow knell,
And says, that in the still air Death doth dwell!

"Nugæ Canora. Poems by Charles Lloyd, Author of 'Edmund Oliver,' 'Isabel,' and translator of Alfieri."

BERNARD BARTON.

I.

TO MY WIFE.

THE butterfly, which sports on gaudy wing;
The brawling brooklet, lost in foam and spray,
As it goes dancing on its idle way;

The sunflower, in broad daylight glistening;
Are types of her who in the festive ring
Lives but to bask in fashion's vain display,
And glittering through her bright but useless day,
Flaunts, and goes down a disregarded thing!"
Thy emblem, Lucy, is the busy bee,

Whose industry for future hours provides; The gentle streamlet, gladding as it glides Unseen along; the flower which gives the lea Fragrance and loveliness, are types of thee, And of the active worth thy modest merit hides.

II.

TO A GRANDMOTHER.

"Old age is dark and unlovely."— OSSIAN.

O, SAY not so! A bright old age is thine,
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves;
Because to thee is given, in thy decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine

At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all He sends with gratitude receives ;-
May such a quiet, thankful close be mine!
And hence thy fireside chair appears to me

A peaceful throne, which thou wert formed to fill ;

Thy children ministers who do thy will;

And those grandchildren, sporting round thy knee, Thy little subjects, looking up to thee

As one who claims their fond allegiance still.

* A good sonnet. Dixi.

CHARLES LAMB.

VOL. I.

15