SONNET.

FROM cloud-swept Snowgate, Dearne ! now swift, now slow,

Thou comest, playing still a busy tune;

And while rich woodbines braid the locks of

June,

And wild hedge-roses in her bosom glow,

That tune is sweet. On, sky-fed Wanderer, go!

Waste not at monkish Burton this bright hour;

Pass Darfield's meads, and many a blossom'd

bower;

Bid Wath good night! and sleep at Conisbro',

In Don's cold arms. Here, scarcely heard to lisp,

Thy waters bask in evening's purply gold,

And round thy lilies - fresh, blush-tinged, and

crisp

Linger, as loth to leave this loveliest scene-
Bard of the Rustic Wreath! my tale is told;
I stand again, where thou hast often been.

ON THE CORONATION OF VICTORIA THE

FIRST.

WRITTEN FOR THE PRINTERS OF SHEFFIELD.

WHAT! here again, Old Caxton?
Thou'rt welcome, as before:

Calm emblem of long-slumbering strength,

That, like a giant, waked, at length,

To sleep no more!

Evil lives long, Old Caxton!

Long, too, live sky and sea;

And Truth's worst foes as well might try

To tame and fetter sea and sky,

As conquer thee.

Yet since we last beheld thee,
Five years of shame have past;

And still the toil-worn millions groan,
And traitors still call ours their own,

And grasp it fast.

This is not well, Old Caxton !

Yet still in truth we trust;

If rocks are worn by sea and sky,

The Press may Freedom's foes defy;

They are but dust.

VOL. II.

Thou noblest apparition

That mortal eye hath seen,

Since Power went down to Death's dark shore!

Could fitter symbol stand before

A British Queen?

FAREWELL TO RIVILIN.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC, AT THE REQUEST OF A. WOOD, ESQ.

BEAUTIFUL River! goldenly shining,

Where with the cistus woodbines are twining;
(Birklands around thee, mountains above thee,)
Rivilin wildest! do I not love thee?

Why do I love thee, Heart-breaking River?
Love thee, and leave thee? Leave thee for ever!
Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee!
Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me!

Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming
Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!
Playfully mingling laughter and sadness,
Ribbledin's Sister! sad in thy gladness.

Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing
Man is a shadow? River undying!

Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth,
E'en as a shadow over thee hasteth.

Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes,
Coffin'd in slander, far from thy roses,

Tell all thy pilgrims, Heart-breaking River!
Tell them I loved thee-love thee for ever!

Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal;
River of Beauty! love is eternal:

While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven, Safe is the fountain flowing from heav'n.

There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming
Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!

Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me,
Glad as the heathflower, glowing to meet thee.

THE DEAD ARE LIVING.

Ask not the unreplying tomb,
"Where are the dead?"

But ask the hawthorn-bloom,

Returning still

To vale and hill;

The verdure, spread

Wide as the seas;

The flowers, the trees,

The river's song;

The gain that laughs, the loss that weeps
The strong deed of the strong,

That ever works, and never sleeps.
Or ask the ever-taking, ever-giving,

Deep ocean, and blue sky;

And they will tell thee, that the dead are living, And cannot die.

A COWARD'S BLOW.

THE strong man smote his wife;
No help for her was nigh;

No strength had she, to fight for life:

She died, and he must die!

Sad is it to be weak,

And sadder to be wrong;

But if the strong God's statutes break,

'Tis saddest to be strong.