SONNET

P

OF DOUBTFUL AUTHENTICITY.

LEASURES lie thickest where no pleas

ures seem.

There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground
But holds some joy of silence or of sound-
Some sprite begotten of a summer dream.
The very meanest things are made supreme,
With innate ecstasy: the grain of sand
But rolls a bright and million-peopled land,

And hath its Eves and Edens-so I deem.
For Love, though blind, a microscopic eye
Has lent me, to behold the hearts of things,
And touch'd mine ear with power: thus far or nigh,
Minute or mighty, fix'd or fleet with wings,
Delight from many a nameless covert-sky
Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar rings.'

I I believe this to be one of George Byron's forgeries.

PRESS OF THEO. L. DE VINNE & CO. NEW-YORK.