SONNET.

[LOVE'S SILENCE.]

B

ECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one,

Nor do not use set colours for to weare, Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan ; The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moan Of them who in their lips Love's standard beare, “What, he ?” say they of me, now I dare sweare He cannot love! No, no, let him alone.” And think so still ! if Stella know

my

minde. Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art; But

you, fair maids, at length this true shall finde, That his right badge is but worne in the heart : Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove: They love indeed, who quake to say they love.

SiR PHILIP SIDNEY.

SONG.

(FROM THE PRINCESS."] LEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

TE

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under world,
Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge,
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

TENNYSON.

TO MY SISTER.

WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE,

AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY.

T is the first mild day of March :

Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch

That stands beside our door.

IT

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And
grass

field.

in the green

My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign ;

Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you ;-and, pray,

Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book : for this one day

We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living calendar :
We from to-day, my Friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now a universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth :

It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than years of toiling reason :
Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,

Which they shall long obey : We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls :

They shall be turn'd to love.

Then come, my

Sister!

I

pray, With speed put on your woodland dress ; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

(A NAVAL ODE.)

YE

E mariners of England,

That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe !
And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your

fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell

Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle

rages

loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below

As they roar on the shore

When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow ;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

CAMPBELL.

SONNET.

TO CYRIACK SKINNER.

C

YRIACK, this three years' day these eyes,

though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,

Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope ; but still bear up

and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them over

plied

N