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 in the silent woods, among Gay crowds, or in any place To hear her voice, to gaze on her young Confiding face. For ever may roses divinely blow, And wine-dark pansies charm By the prim box path where I felt the glow Of her dimpled, trusting arm, And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled A smile as pure as her pearls; The breeze was in love with the darling Child, As it moved her curls. She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays, Foxglove and jasmine stars, A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze Of red in the celadon jars: And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, And roses of bountiful June-- Oh, who would think their summer spells Could die so soon!