more, in chat;
I wondered what they would be at
Under the lindens.

I saw four eyes and four lips meet,
I heard the words, _"How sweet! how sweet!"_
Had then the Faeries given a treat
Under the lindens?

I pondered long and could not tell
What dainty pleased them both so well:
Bees! bees! was it your hydromel
Under the lindens?

[Decoration]

_SIXTEEN._

In Clementina's artless mien
Lucilla asks me what I see,--
And are the roses of sixteen
Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all,
Have I not culled as sweet before?
Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall
I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,
Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light,--
More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright:

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,
And Modesty, who, when she goes,
Is gone forever!

_IANTHE._

Thank Heaven, Ianthe, once again
Our hands and ardent lips shall meet,
And Pleasure, to assert his reign,
Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet:
Then cease repeating while you mourn,
"I wonder when he will return."

Ah wherefore should you so admire
The flowing words that fill my song,
Why call them artless, yet require
"Some promise from that tuneful tongue?"
I doubt if heaven itself could part
A tuneful tongue and tender heart.

[Decoration]

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

_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.

[Decoration]

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