THE OBLATION.

3SK nothing more of me, sweet;
All I can give you I give.

A

Heart of my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet:
Love that should help you to live,
Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give
Once to have sense of you more,

Touch you and taste of you sweet,
Think you and breathe you and live,
Swept of your wings as they soar,
Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more,
Give you but love of you, sweet :

He that hath more, let him give;
He that hath wings, let him soar;
Mine is the heart at your feet
Here, that must love you to live.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

HE bee to the heather,
The lark to the sky,

The roe to the greenwood,

And whither shall I ?

Oh, Alice! ah, Alice!

So sweet to the bee

Are the moorland and heather

By Cannock and Leigh!

Oh, Alice! ah, Alice!

O'er Teddesley Park

The sunny sky scatters
The notes of the lark!

Oh, Alice! ah, Alice!
In Beaudesert glade

The roes toss their antlers
For joy of the shade!—

But Alice, dear Alice!

Glade, moorland, nor sky Without you can content me,

And whither shall I ?

SIR HENRY TAYLOR.

A DAISY CHAIN.

HE white rose decks the breast of May,
The red rose smiles in June,

Yet autumn chills and winter kills

And leaves their stems alone;

Ah, swiftly dies the garden's pride
Whose sleep no waking knows,-

But my love she is the daisy

That all the long year grows.

The early woods are gay with green,
The fields are prankt with gold,
But fair must fade and green be greyed
Before the year is old;

The blue-bell hangs her shining head,

No more the oxslip blows,

But my love she is the daisy

That all the long year grows.

Still deck, wild woods, your mantle green,
All meads bright jewels wear,

Let showers of spring fresh violets bring
And sweetness load the air;

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
Is on the linden tree.

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!