THE FLOWER'S NAME. ERE'S the garden she walked across, H Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. She must have reached the shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox, Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise? Speech half asleep, or song half awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not,- Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud! show me the least of her traces; Treasure my lady's lightest footfall: Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces, — ROBERT BROWNING. LEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more: The sky is changed!—and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! LORD BYRON. FREEDOM OF NATURE. CARE not, Fortune, what you me deny: You cannot bar my constant feet to trace |