Still deck, wild woods, your mantle green, Let showers of spring fresh violets bring Whilst summer boasts her roses red And March her scented snows,— My love be still the daisy, And my heart whereon she grows. H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL. A WILD WOOD SPELL. SOME to the woods, Medora, Come to the woods with me; The leaves are green, the summer sheen Up in the woods, Medora, The thrushes warble free; Around, above, they sing of love, So let me sing to thee! On the low thorn, Medora, The finch is fair to see, A jewel bright, a heart's delight Ah! so art thou to me. From the dark pines, Medora, There flows a balmy sea; The air's soft kiss is heavenly bliss How sweet art thou to me! Through the wood-moss, Medora, Away, away, they will not stay; Come to the woods, Medora, Come to the shade with me; The roses bloom in that sweet gloom So bloom, dear rose, for me! EARL OF SOUTHESK. F REINE D'AMOUR. LOSE as the stars along the sky, And each one sigh'd as I went by, And take her for my Queen. And one in virgin white was drest Each whispering I should pluck her there Of Love, And take her for my Queen. But sudden at my feet look'd up Pure odour in pure perfect cup, That made my bosom sing. 'Twas not for size, nor gorgeous dyes, But her own self, I ween, Her own sweet self, that bade me stoop And take her for my Queen. Now all day long and every day Her beauty on me grows, And holds with stronger sweeter sway Than lily or than rose; And this one star outshines by far All in the meadow green;— And so I wear her on my heart And take her for my Queen. FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. |