GIVE ME THE OLD.

I.

OLD wine to drink!

Ay, give the slippery juice

That drippeth from the grape thrown loose

Within the tun;

Plucked from beneath the cliff
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,

And ripened 'neath the blink
Of India's sun!
Peat whiskey hot,

Tempered with well-boiled water!
These make the long night shorter,
Forgetting not

Good stout old English porter.

II.

Old wood to burn!—

Ay, bring the hillside beech From where the owlets meet and screech,

And ravens croak;

The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, Dug 'neath the fern;

The knotted oak, A fagot too, perhap, Whose bright flame, dancing, winking,

Shall light us at our drinking;

While the oozing sap

Shall make sweet music to our thinking.

III.

Old books to read!

Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ, Time-honored tomes!

The same my sire scanned before,
The same my grandsire thumbèd o'er,
The same his sire from college bore,
The well-earned meed

Of Oxford's domes:
Old Homer blind,

Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie;
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie,
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay!
And Gervase Markham's venerie-
Nor leave behind
The Holy Book by which we live

and die.

IV.

Old friends to talk!

Ay, bring those chosen few,
The wise, the courtly, and the true,
So rarely found;

Him for my wine, him for my stud,
Him for my easel, distich, bud
In mountain walk!

Bring Walter good:

With soulful Fred; and learned Will, And thee, my alter ego, (dearer still For every mood).

R. H. MESSINGER.

TO A CHILD.

I WOULD that thou might always be As innocent as now,

That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were all poetry
To gentle measure set,

That nought but chastened melody
Might stain thine eye of jet,
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp had broken.
I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,
The waters taintless flow;

But they who kneel at woman's
shrine

Breathe on it as they bow.

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence;
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning
together

To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall:
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall.

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me:
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses;
Their arms about me intwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

And still with favor singled out, Marred less than man by mortal fall,

Her disposition is devout,

Her countenance angelical.

No faithless thought her instinct shrouds,

But fancy checkers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds

On noonday's azure permanence. Pure courtesy, composure, ease, Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degrees

Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus' side, Is potent to deject the face

Of him who would affront its pride. Wrong dares not in her presence speak,

Nor spotted thought its taint disclose

Under the protest of a cheek

Outbragging Nature's boast, the

rose.

In mind and manners how discreet!
How artless in her very art!
How candid in discourse! how sweet
The concord of her lips and heart!

How (not to call true instinct's bent And woman's very nature harm), How amiable and innocent

Her pleasure in her power to charm!

How humbly careful to attract, Though crowned with all the soul desires,

Connubial aptitude exact,
Diversity that never tires!

COVENTRY PATMORE.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet ex-
press

How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.

ANATHEMATA.

BYRON.

HONORIA.

I WATCHED her face, suspecting germs

Of love: her farewell showed me

plain

She loved, on the majestic terms

That she should not be loved again. She was all mildness; yet t'was writ Upon her beauty legibly,

Than any other planet in Heaven,
The moone, or the starres seven,
For all the world, so had she
Surmounten them all of beauty,
Of manner, and of comeliness,
Of stature, and of well set gladnesse,
Of goodly heed, and so well besey,1
Shortly what shall I more say,
By God, and by his holowes2 twelve,
It was my sweet, right all herselve.
She had so stedfast countenance
In noble port and maintenance,
And Love that well harde my bone3
Had espied me thus soone,
That she full soone in my thought
As, help me God, so was I caught
So suddenly that I ne took
No manner counsel but at her look,
And at my heart for why her eyen
So gladly I trow mine heart, seyen
That purely then mine own thought
Said, 'Twere better to serve her for
nought

Than with another to be well.

I saw her dance so comely,
Carol and sing so swetely,
Laugh and play so womanly,
And look so debonairly,

So goodly speak, and so friendly,
That certes I trow that evermore
N'as seen so blissful a treasore,
For every hair on her head,
Sooth to say, it was not red,
Nor neither yellow nor brown it n'as,
Methought most like gold it was,
And such eyen my lady had,
Debonnaire, good, glad, and sad,
Simple, of good mokel, not too wide,
Thereto her look was not aside,
Nor overtwhart, but beset so well
It drew and took up every dell.
All that on her 'gan behold
Her eyen seemed anon she would
Have mercy,-folly wenden 5 so,
But it was never the rather do.
It was no counterfeited thing
It was her own pure looking
That the goddess Dame Nature
Had made them open by measure
And close; for, were she never so
glad

Her looking was not foolish sprad 6
Nor wildly, though that she played;
But ever methought her eyen said

By God my wrath is all forgive.
Therewith her list so well to live,
That dulness was of her adrad,
She n'as too sober ne too glad;
In all thinges more measure
Had never I trowe creature,
But many one with her look she hurt,
And that sat her full little at herte:
For she knew nothing of their
thought,

But whether she knew, or knew it not,
Alway she ne cared for them a stree;1
To get her love no near n'as he
That woned2 at home, than he in Inde,
The foremost was alway behinde;
But good folk over all other
She loved as man may his brother,
Of which love she was wonder large,
In skilful places that bear charge:
But what a visage had she thereto,
Alas! my heart is wonder wo
That I not can describen it;-
Me lacketh both English and wit
For to undo it at the full.
And eke my spirits be so dull
So great a thing for to devise,
I have not wit that can suffice
To comprehend her beauté,

But thus much I dare saine, that she Was white, ruddy, fresh, and lifely hued,

And every day her beauty newed.
And nigh her face was alderbest;3
For, certes, Nature had such lest
To make that fair, that truly she
Was her chief patron of beauté,
And chief example of all her worke
And moulter: for, be it never so derke,
Methinks I see her evermo,
And yet, moreover, though all tho
That ever lived were now alive,
Not would have founde to descrive
In all her face a wicked sign,
For it was sad, simple, and benign.
And such a goodly sweet speech
Had that sweet, my life's leech,
So friendly, and so well y-grounded
Upon all reason, so well founded,
And so treatable to all good,
That I dare swear well by the rood,
Of eloquence was never found
So sweet a sounding faconde,5
Nor truer tongued nor scornèd less,
Nor bét could heal, that, by the Mass
Idurst swear, though the Pope it sung,

There was never yet through her tongue

Man or woman greatly harmèd
As for her was all harm hid,
No lassie flattering in her worde,
That, purely, her simple record
Was found as true as any bond,
Or truth of any man'es hand.

Her throat, as I have now memory,
Seemed as a round tower of ivory,
Of good greatness, and not too great,
And fair white she hete?

That was my lady's name right,
She was thereto fair and bright,
She had not her name wrong,
Right fair shoulders, and body long
She had, and armes ever lith
Fattish, fleshy, not great therewith,
Right white hands and nailès red
Round breasts, and of good brede 8
Her lippes were; a straight flat back,
I knew on her none other lack,
That all her limbs were pure snowing
In as far as I had knowing.
Thereto she could so well play
What that her list, that I dare say
That was like to torch bright
That every man may take of light
Enough, and it hath never the less
Of manner and of comeliness.
Right so fared my lady dear
For every wight of her mannere
Might catch enough if that he would
If he had eyes her to behold
For I dare swear well if that she
Had among ten thousand be,
She would have been at the best,
A chief mirror of all the feast
Though they had stood in a row
To men's eyen that could know,
For whereso men had played or
waked,

Methought the fellowship as naked
Without her, that I saw once
As a crown without stones.
Truely she was to mine eye
The solein phoenix of Araby,
For there liveth never but one,
Nor such as she ne know I none.
To speak of goodness, truely she
Had as much debonnairte

As ever had Hester in the Bible,
And more, if more were possible;
And sooth to say therewithal
She had a wit so general,