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!

Through the wood-moss, Medora,
The emerald lizards flee,

Away, away, they will not stay;
Oh, flee not thus from me!

Come to the woods, Medora,

Come to the shade with me;

The roses bloom in that sweet gloom

So bloom, dear rose, for me!

EARL OF SOUTHESK.

F

REINE D'AMOUR.

LOSE as the stars along the sky,
The flowers were in the mead,
The purple heart, and golden eye,
And crimson-flaming weed :-

And each one sigh'd as I went by,
And touch'd my garment green,
And bade me wear her on my heart
And take her for my Queen
Of Love,-

And take her for my Queen.

And one in virgin white was drest
With lowly gracious head;
And one unveil'd a burning breast
With Love's own ardour red;
All rainbow bright, with laughter light,
They flicker'd o'er the green,

Each whispering I should pluck her there
And take her for my Queen

Of Love,

And take her for my Queen.

But sudden at my feet look'd up
A little star-like thing,

Pure odour in pure perfect cup,

That made my bosom sing. 'Twas not for size, nor gorgeous dyes,

But her own self, I ween,

Her own sweet self, that bade me stoop
And take her for my Queen
Of Love,—

And take her for my Queen.

Now all day long and every day

Her beauty on me grows,

And holds with stronger sweeter sway

Than lily or than rose;

And this one star outshines by far

All in the meadow green;—

And so I wear her on my heart
And take her for my Queen
Of Love,-

And take her for my Queen.

FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.