_ONE LOVELY NAME._

One lovely name adorns my song, And, dwelling in the heart, For ever falters at the tongue, And trembles to depart.

_FORSAKEN._

Mother, I can not mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!

But oh, who ever felt as I!

No longer could I doubt him true, All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.

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FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

1821-1895.

_A GARDEN LYRIC._

The flow of life is yet a rill That laughs, and leaps, and glistens; And still the woodland rings, and still The old Damoetas listens.

We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft, We have met under wintry skies; Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft Is the light in her gentle eyes; It is bliss in the silent woods, among Gay crowds, or in any place To hear her voice, to gaze on her young Confiding face.

For ever may roses divinely blow, And wine-dark pansies charm By the prim box path where I felt the glow Of her dimpled, trusting arm, And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled A smile as pure as her pearls; The breeze was in love with the darling Child, As it moved her curls.

She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays, Foxglove and jasmine stars, A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze Of red in the celadon jars: And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, And roses of bountiful June-- Oh, who would think their summer spells Could die so soon!

For a glad song came from the milking shed, On a wind of the summer south, And the green was golden above her head, And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth; Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt; And the wings of Time were fleet As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt Life was so sweet!

And the odorous limes were dim above As we leant on a drooping bough; And the darkling air was a breath of love, And a witching thrush sang "Now!"

For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew As we listen'd and sigh'd, and leant; That day was the sweetest day--and we knew What the sweetness meant.

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_THE CUCKOO._

We heard it calling, clear and low, That tender April morn; we stood And listened in the quiet wood, We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, A friend, but from a far-off land; We stood and listened, hand in hand, And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy, And so it seemed as 't were the Bird That Helen in old times had heard At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near!

It came to her in that hush'd grove, It warbled while the wooing throve, It sang the song she loved to hear.

And now I hear its voice again, And still its message is of peace, It sings of love that will not cease-- For me it never sings in vain.

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_GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE._

As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl, Her Necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl; Year after year it grew, and grew, For every birthday gave her two.

Her neck is lovely,--soft and fair, And now her Necklace glimmers there.

So cradled, let it fall and rise, And all her graces symbolize.

Perchance this pearl, without a speck, Once was as warm on Sappho's neck; Where are the happy, twilight pearls That braided Beatrice's curls?

Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?

Or, if she 's either, is she both?

She 's fancy free, but sweeter far Than many plighted maidens are: Will Gerty smile us all away, And still be Gerty? Who can say?

But let her wear her Precious Toy, And I 'll rejoice to see her joy: Her bauble 's only one degree Less frail, less fugitive than we, For time, ere long, will snap the skein, And scatter all her Pearls again.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: Full-page Plate]

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SAMUEL LOVER.

1797-1868.

_THE ANGEL'S WHISPER._[C]

A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For the husband was far on the wild raging Sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling; And she cried, "Dermot darling, oh come back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; "O blest be that warning, My child thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!

"And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!

And say thou wouldst rather They 'd watch o'er thy father; For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!"

The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child, with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!"

[Footnote C: A superst.i.tion of great beauty prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is "talking with angels."]

_WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?_