SONG.

WOULD not die in winter,

When the flowers have passed away;

But I would sigh my last sigh

In the pleasant month of May !

I would have birds about me
To sing me into death,

And green trees, answering sweetly
To the low gale's gentle breath!

Buds and blossoms should be gleaming

Beneath an azure sky;

With the infant Spring around me,
It is thus that I would die !

With the new-blown rose unfolding,
And the bright winged butterfly,

All emblems of a fairer world;

It is thus that I would die!

R. F. HOUSMAN.

SWEET LAVENDER.

WEET lavender! I love thy flower

Of meek and modest blue,

Which meets the morn and evening hour, The storm, the sunshine, and the shower, And changeth not its hue.

In cottage-maid's parterre thou'rt seen
In simple touching grace;

And in the garden of the queen,

'Midst costly plants and blossoms sheen,

Thou also hast a place.

The rose with bright and peerless bloom

Attracted many eyes;

But while her glories and perfume
Expire before brief summer's doom,
Thy fragrance never dies.

Thou art not like the fickle train
Our adverse fates estrange;
Who in the day of grief and pain
Are found deceitful, light, and vain,
For thou dost never change.

But thou art emblem of the friend,
Who, whatso'er our lot,

The balm of faithful love will lend,
And true and constant to the end,
May die, but alters not.

STRICKLAND.

A WOODLAND PICTURE.

I PRAY thee stay! Where hast thou been?
Or whither goest thou? Here be woods as green
As any; air likewise as fresh and sweet

As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the cured streams, with flowers as many
As the young spring gives, and as choice as any;
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes to make many a ring

For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,-
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly, in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest.

FLETCHER'S FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.

SONG TO DIAPHENIA.

IAPHEN'S like the daffy-down-dilly,
White as the sun, fair as the lily,
Heigh-ho! how I do love thee!

I do love thee as my lambs

Are beloved of their dams;

How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me!

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
Fair sweet, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as each flower

Loves the sun's life-giving power;

For dead, thy breath to life might move me,

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed
When all thy praises are expressed,
Dear joy, how I do love thee!
As the birds do love the spring,
Or the bees their careful king :-

:

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me! HENRY CONSTABLE, 1590.

THE ALPINE VIOLET.

HE spring is come, the violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter flower,

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue,
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

But when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most,
Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse
Her heavenly odours and virgin hues.

Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald out of dire December;

The morning star of all the flowers,

The pledge of daylight's lengthened hours;
And 'mid the roses ne'er forget

The virgin, virgin violet.

BYRON.