SONNET.

By R. C. TRENCH.

WE live not in our moments or our years.-
The present we fling from us as the rind
Of some sweet future, which we after find
Better to taste, or bind that in with fears,
And water it beforehand with our tears-
Vain tears for that which never may arrive!
Meanwhile the joy by which we ought to live,
Neglected or unheeded, disappears.

Wiser it were to welcome and make ours
Whate'er of good, though small, the present brings-
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers,
With a child's pure delight in little things:

And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,
Knowing that mercy ever will endure.

THE WINTER THRUSH.

By KEBLE, in Lyra Apostohen.

SWEET bird! up earliest in the morn,
Up earliest in the year;
Far in the quiet mist are borne
Thy matins soft and clear.

As linnet soft, and clear as lark,

Well hast thou ta'en thy part;
Where many an ear thy notes may reach,
And here and there a heart.

The first snow-wreaths are scarcely gone
(They staid but half a day),
The berries bright hang lingering on :
Yet thou hast learn'd thy lay.

One gleam, one gale of western air,
Has hardly brush'd thy wing;
Yet thou hast given thy welcome fair,
Good-morrow to the Spring!

Perhaps within thy carol's sound
Some wakeful mourner lies,

Dim roaming, days and years around,
That ne'er again may rise.

He thanks thee with a tearful eye,
For thou hast wing'd his sprite
Back to some hour when hopes were high,
And dearest friends in sight:

That simple, fearless note of thine
Has pierced the cloud of care,
And lit awhile the gleam divine
That bless'd his infant prayer:

Ere he had known, his faith to blight,
The scorner's withering smile;

While hearts, he deem'd, beat true and light,
Here in our Christian isle.

That sunny morning glimpse is gone,
That morning note is still,
The dun dark day comes lowering on,
The spoilers roam at will;

Yet calmly rise, and boldly strive :
The sweet bird's early song,
Ere evening fall, shall oft revive
And cheer thee all day long.

Are we not sworn to serve one thing?
He sworn with us to be?

The birds that chant before the spring
Are truer far than we.

TO WILLIAM

By PEABODY, an American poet.

Ir seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high ; And I had almost scorn'd the voice that told me thou must

die.

I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free,

And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee.

Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morning sky;

And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek display'd the red rose tint that health had painted there.

And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to

tears;

'Twas like the sounds I used to hear in old and happier years.

Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy,That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain destroy.

I listen'd, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore.

So gentle in thy loveliness!-alas! how could it be,

That Death would not forbear to lay his icy hand on thee? Nor spare thee yet a little while, in childhood's opening bloom?

While many a sad and weary soul was longing for the tomb?

Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy my paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was, it sunk away as soon

As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at

noon.

I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd; but, ere that day was spent,

I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent,
And shudder'd as I cast a look upon thy fainting head;
The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost
fled.

Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death made known that hope was vain;

I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again ;— The cheek was pale; the snowy lips were gently thrown

apart;

And life, in every passing breath, seemed gushing from the heart.

I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be press'd,

And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled widely o'er my

breast:

Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seem'd moving in the gloom,

As if Death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb.

And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my

eye,

Thy little hand press'd gently mine, in token of reply; To ask one more exchange of love, thy look was upward cast,

And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit pass'd.

I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony, it ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou within the grave my weary head should'st lay,

And live, beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close, And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose; For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppress'd, And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now; but let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier bless'd than mine; My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee

more.

EPITAPH ON LADY PASTON, IN PASTON CHURCH,

NORFOLK.

Obit. 10th March, 1628.

We do not know the author of this quaint but beautiful epitaph. It reads like CAREW's compositions.

CAN man be silent, and not praises find

For her who lived the praise of womankind;

Whose outward frame was lent the world, to guess

What shapes our souls shall wear in happiness;

Whose virtue did all ill so oversway,

That her whole life was a communion-day.

WOOD HYMN.

The author of this very beautiful poem is not known to us.

BROODS there some spirit here?

The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud,
And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet's bloom.

The very light, that streams
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes, tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground:
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.

Wakes there some spirit here?

A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices-each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!