AS YOU LIKE IT, Act II., Sc. 7.

THIS done, the blossom and the fruit of all
Was her prime truth, into each element
Of his life's feelings and its acts, to instil:
'Twas Love's divinest essence. In the soul,
Central its altar's flame for ever burns
Inviolate, and knowing not the change
Which time and fate o'er all else in the world
Bring speedily, or with a creeping film
That hides decay. Ever at peace it dwells
With its secure desires, which are soul-fed,
Nor on idolatrous devotion made
Dependent, nor on will and wayward moods
Of others; 'tis self-centred as a star,
And in the music of the conscious nerves,
Finds bliss, which e'en the slightest touch or
look

Of this magnetic passion can create,

And render perfect. Nor doth absence break
The links of ecstasy, which from a heart

By a heart are drawn ; but midst the glare of day,
The depths of night, alone, or in a crowd,
Imagination of love's balmy breath
Can to the spirit fashion and expand
Love's own pure rapture and delirium.
To this fixed sublimation there belong
No conflicts of pale doubts, anxieties,
Mean jealousies, anguish of heart-crushed slaves,
And forlorn faces looking out on seas
Of coming madness, from the stony gaps
Through which departed truth and bliss have

fled;

But high communion, and a rapturous sense
Of passion's element, whereof all life.
Is made; and therefore life should ne'er attain
A mastery o'er its pure creative light.

R. H. HORNE,
Orion. (Chatto and Windus.)

THE SELF-ENGROSSMENT OF LOVE,

AND see, the lovers go

With lingering steps and slow,

Over all the world together, all in all,
Over all the world! The empires fall;
The onward march of Man seems spent ;
The nations rot in dull content;
The blight of war, a bitter flood,
From continent to continent,
Rolls on with waves of blood;

The light of knowledge sinks, the fire of thought burns low;

There seems scant thought of God; but yet
One power there is men ne'er forget,
And still through every land beneath the
skies,

Rapt, careless, looking in each other's eyes,
With lingering steps and slow,
The lovers go.

LEWIS MORRIS.

The Ode of Life. (K. Paul.)

THE THIRTY REQUISITES. THIRTY points of perfection each judge understands, The standard of feminine beauty demands.

Three white: and, without further prelude, we know That the skin, hands, and teeth should be pearly

as snow.

Three black-and our standard departure forbids From dark eyes, darksome tresses, and darklyfringed lids.

Three red-and the lover of comeliness seeks
For the hue of the rose in the lips, nails, and cheeks.
Three long-and of this you, no doubt, are aware?
Long the body should be, long the hands, long the
hair.

Three short-and herein nicest beauty appears,—
Feet short as a fairy's, short teeth, and short ears.
Three large-and remember this rule as to size
Embraces the shoulders, the forehead, the eyes.
Three narrow :-a maxim to every man's taste,-
Circumference small in mouth, ankle, and waist.
Three round: -and in this I see infinite charms-
Rounded fulness apparent in leg, hip, and arms.
Three fine and can aught the enchantment
eclipse,

:

Of fine tapering fingers, fine hair, and fine lips?
Three small-and my thirty essentials are told-
Small head, nose, and bosom, compact in its mould.
Now the dame who comprises attractions like these,
Will require not the cestus of Venus to please;
While he who has met with a union so rare,
Has had better luck than has fall'n to my share.
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH.
Ballads. (G. Routledge and Sons.)

[This and the subsequent extracts from Ainsworth's Ballads are inserted by kind permission of the publishers, Messrs. George Routledge and Sons.]

LOVE'S of itself too sweet; the best of all 1s, when love's honey has a dash of gall. ROBERT HERRICK.

A PAIR WELL MATCHED. FAIR Iris I love, and hourly I die, But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye; She's fickle and false, and there we agree, For I am as false and as fickle as she; We neither believe what either can say, And neither believing, we neither betray.

(FROM THE FRENCH OF CLEMENT MAROT.) A SWEET "No, no,"-with a sweet smile beneath, Becomes an honest girl : I'd have you learn it:— As for plain "Yes," it may be said, i'faith,

Too plainly and too oft :-pray, well discern it.

Not that I'd have my pleasure incomplete,

Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you; But that in suffering me to take it, sweet, I'd have you say, "No, no, I will not let you." LEIGH HUNT,

Poetical Works. (G. Routledge and Sons.)

WHEN thy beauty appears,
In its graces and airs,

All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky; At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,

So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when without art,

Your kind thoughts you impart,

When your love runs in blushes through every vein;

When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,

Then I know you're a woman again.

There's a passion and pride
In our sex (she replied),

And thus (might I gratify both) I would do:
Still an angel appear to each lover beside,
But still be a woman to you.

THOMAS PARNELL.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,

And if you nurse a flame That's told but to her mutual breast,

We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallow'd thoughts so dear; But drink to them that we love most,

As they would love to hear.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

“PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE.” I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore :Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door: So he call'd upon Lucy-'twas just ten o'clock— Like a spruce single man, with a smart double

knock.

Now a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at,
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat :
So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more
Had question'd the stranger and answer'd the door.
The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe;
For the moment will come when such comers must
go;

So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd-poor innocent thing

"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."

THOMAS HOOD.

Poetical Works. (Ward, Lock and Co.)

[Several extracts from the copyright poems by Thomas Hood are included in this volume through the courtesy of Messrs. Ward, Lock, and Co.]

LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

THEY may talk of love in a cottage,

And bowers of trellised vineOf nature bewitchingly simple,

And milkmaids half divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free! But give me a sly flirtation

By the light of a chandelierWith music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near :

Or a seat on a silken sofa,

With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies-
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!