Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ;

'
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

TENNYSON.

IN

N the hour of my distress,

When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the priest bis last hath pray'd,
And I nod to what is said,
'Cause my speech is now decay'd,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the judgment is reveal'd,
And that open'd which was seal'd,
When to thee I have appeald,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

HERRICK.

SONNET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

HE might of one fair face sublimes my love,

For it hath wean'd my heart from low desires, Nor death I need, nor purgatorial fires ; Thy beauty, antepart of joys above, Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; For oh ! how good, how beautiful must be The God that made so good a thing as thee, So fair an image of the heavenly Dove. Forgive me if I cannot turn away From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars benignly given To tempt my footsteps to the upward way; And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, I live and love in God's peculiar light.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

[SPRING AND SORROW.]

OW fades the last long streak of snow,

Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick, By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,

The distance takes a lovelier hue,

And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,

The flocks are whiter down the vale,

And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea ;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives

In yonder greening gleam, and fly

The happy birds that change their sky To build and brood ; that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast

Spring wakens too; and my regret

Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.

In Memoriam.

CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS.

E are the sweet Flowers,

Born of sunny showers, Think, whene er you see us, what our beauty saith:

Utterance mute and bright

Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath:

All who see us, love us ;

We befit all places ; Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto graces,

graces.

Mark our ways, how noiseless

All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March winds pipe to make our passage

clear;

Not a whisper tells

Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips

appear.
We thread the earth in silence,

In silence build our bowers,
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop,

sweet Flowers !

The dear lumpish baby,

Humming with the May-bee, Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through

the grass ;

The honey-dropping moon,

On a night in June,
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bride-

groom pass;
Age, the wither'd clinger,

On us mutely gazes,
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his

childhood's daisies.

See, and scorn all duller

Taste, how heav'n loves colour, How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;

What sweet thoughts she thinks

Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be

seen;
See her whitest lilies

Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of

a

Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;

Travellers weary-eyed

Bless us far and wide;
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden

truce;
Not a poor town-window

Loves its sickliest planting,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's

whole vaunting

Sage are yet the uses

Mix'd with our sweet juices,
Whether man or may-fly profit of the balm ;

As fair fingers heal'd

Knights from the olden field,
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest

calm.
E'en the terror Poison

Hath its plea for blooming;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the

presuming.

a

And oh ! our sweet soul-taker,

That thief the honey-maker,
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!

In his talking rooms

How the feasting fumes, Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths of men !

The butterflies come aping

Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled

flowers with flowers.

See those tops, how beauteous !
What fair service duteous