CIX.

If sorrow have taught me anything
She hath taught me to weep

for

you; And if Falsehood have left me a tear to shed

For Truth, these tears are true. If the one star left by the morning

Be dear to the dying night;
If the late lone rose of October

Be sweetest to scent and sight,
If the last of the leaves in December

Be dear to the desolate tree,
Remember, beloved, O remember

How dear is your beauty to me!

And more dear than the gold, is the silver

Grief hath sown in that hair's young gold: And lovelier than youth, is the language

Of the thoughts that have made youth old ; We must love, and unlove, and forget, dear

Fashion and shatter the spell
Of how many a love in a life, dear-

Ere life learns to love once and love well.
Then what matters it, yesterday's sorrow?

Since I have outlived it-see!
And what matter the cares of to-morrow,

Since you, dear, will share them with me?

Owen Meredith. CX.

A RETROSPECT.

Look back, look back! the height is won,
The journey of thy youth is done;
Thou hast passed the clime of flowers,
The solemn snow above thee towers,
Look back! thou never, never more
Wilt breathe the air thou breath’dst before.
There they lie those tender hues
Veiled in thickly-rising dews,
There they sleep, those tones so dear
Which woke and charmed thy youthful ear;
Never more the flowers or strain
Shalt thou see or hear again.
They were thine, and that is gone,
Time of such seasons has but one;
All was new—thy heart and all,

Passion, Duty, Hope, Delight,
And where'er thine eye could fall

There were objects fresh and bright.
Age must take those fairy things

And from them fashion all he feels,
But his hand is cold and flings
A dampness o'er Life's tuneful strings

That half their music steals.
Not like Youth, for he can make
The soul of every string awake;
Delicate, light, and swift his hand

Flies o'er the lyre and bids it sing.

Till the very heart in reply will ring
And feel itself all in fairy-land.
Look back ! for there is the scene wherein
Thou heardest the song of Life begin.

Mrs. Clive.

CXI.

A PROSPECT.

I stand upon a vantage-height

With rocks and snows around me, And gaze on valleys smiling bright

Where earliest morning found me. By village lawns and grassy slopes

I careless mused and pondered,
Thro' marshy sedge, o'er glacier edge

Up, ever up, I wandered.
Day wears—and from my rocky throne
I
gaze,

and tho' no craven,
I tremble at the dim Unknown

Where lies my evening haven.
No genial slopes, no grassy way,

But icy chasms clouded,
And whirling mists and torrents spray,

Sun-lit, but dimly shrouded.
I stand upon the vantage-ground

Where two score years have left me,
And sighing gaze below, around,

Oh, how has Time bereft me! Bright spots I see, like many a gem

Still in the distance burning,
And fain would I revisit them,

But ah! there's no returning!
Day wears—I watch with anxious mind,

The path I must be going,
Sunlit, but vague and undefined

The mists are round me growing.
Then memory brings the mountain's brow

Where dangers rose beside me,
" Who led me then will lead me now,
Who guided then will guide me.”

G. H. S.

CXII.

RAIN IN SUMMER.

How beautiful is the rain ! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain. The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. In the country on every side, Where far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain. Near at hand From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These and far more than these The Poet sees! He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air ;

And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung or said, For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down thro' chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers underground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colours seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer With vision clear Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change. From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

Longfellow.

M