SONNET. By R. C. TRENCH. WE live not in our moments or our years.- Wiser it were to welcome and make ours And of the griefs unborn to rest secure, THE WINTER THRUSH. By KEBLE, in Lyra Apostohen. SWEET bird! up earliest in the morn, As linnet soft, and clear as lark, Well hast thou ta'en thy part; The first snow-wreaths are scarcely gone One gleam, one gale of western air, Perhaps within thy carol's sound Dim roaming, days and years around, He thanks thee with a tearful eye, That simple, fearless note of thine Ere he had known, his faith to blight, While hearts, he deem'd, beat true and light, That sunny morning glimpse is gone, Yet calmly rise, and boldly strive : Are we not sworn to serve one thing? The birds that chant before the spring 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? 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, 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, 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, The very light, that streams Wakes there some spirit here? A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by, |