They wore the red cross on their shoulder,

They had vanquished and pardoned their foeSweet friend, are you wiser or colder? My own Araminta, say 'No!'

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage,
Drove off with your cousin Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whispered 'How base she has been!'
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband looked so;
And you will not apostatize,-will you?
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;

We walked arm in arm to the road, love,
We looked arm in arm to the sky;
And I said 'When a foreign postilion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian:

My own Araminta, say "No"!'

We parted! but sympathy's fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;

I muse o'er you exquisite letters,

And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me, love,-
The richest of treasures below,-

If he's not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,

If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself "Thompson' or ‘Skinner,’
My own Araminta, say ‘No!’

If he studies the news in the papers
While you are preparing the tea,
If he talks of the damps or the vapours
While moonlight lies soft on the sea,
If he's sleepy while you are capricious,
If he has not a musical 'Oh!’
If he does not call Werther delicious,—
My own Araminta, say “No!’

If he ever sets foot in the city
Among the stockbrokers and Jews,
If he has not a heart full of pity,

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes,
If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow,
If he has not the model of noses,—
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,

Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,— My own Araminta, say ‘No!'

He must walk-like a god of old story
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile-like the sun in his glory
On the buds he loves ever the best;

And oh! from its ivory portal

Like music his soft speech must flow!— If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say 'No!'

Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,
Don't look at his seat in the county,

Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;
If he's only an excellent person,-
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

W. M. Praed.

ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER

WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover?
Prythee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The D-1 take her!

Sir J. Suckling.

COMPANIONS

I KNOW not of what we pondered

Or made pretty pretence to talk,

As, her hand within mine, we wandered

Toward the pool by the lime tree walk,

While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers

And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure:

Was it regal as Juno's own?

Or only a trifle bigger

Than the elves who surrounded the throne Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not:

Perhaps they were blurred with tears;
And perhaps in your skies there glow not
(On the contrary) clearer spheres.
No! as to her eyes, I am just as wise
As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly":

But which was she, brunette or blonde?

Her hair, was it quaintly curly,

Or as straight as a beadle's wand?

That I failed to remark;—it was rather dark
And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly
In mine—was it plump or spare?

Was the countenance fair or ugly?
Nay, children, you have me there!

My eyes were p'raps blurred; and besides I'd heard
That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I was I brusque and surly?

Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early?

Or why did we twain abscond,

All breakfastless too, from the public view
To prowl by a misty pond?

What passed, what was felt or spoken-
Whether anything passed at all—
And whether the heart was broken

That beat under that shelt'ring shawl(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)—has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?

Or her uncle? I can't make out— Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.

For myself, I'm in helpless doubt

As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And what this is all about.

C. S. Calverley.

MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

She has dancing eyes and ruby lips,
Delightful boots—and away she skips.

THEY nearly strike me dumb,—
I tremble when they come

Pit-a-pat:

This palpitation means

These boots are Geraldine's

Think of that!

O, where did hunter win

So delicate a skin

For her feet?