SONNET.

ON HEARING THE DIES IRE SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL.

NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,

Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,

Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love

Than terrors of red flame and thundering.

The empurpled vines dear memories of Thee bring:

A bird at evening flying to its nest, Tells me of One who had no place of rest:

I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.

Come rather on some autumn afternoon,

When red and brown are burnished

That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close Is scattered on the groundto die. Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see,— But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf,

That trembles in the moon's pale ray!

Its hold is frail, its date is brief;

Restless, and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree,

But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea,

But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ?

Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe:

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,

Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;

To thee, the palm of scoffing, we ascribe,

rule!

Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misFor such thou art by day -- but all Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, night long

solemn, strain,

As if thou didst, in this thy moonlight song,

Like to the melancholy Jacques complain,

Musing on falsehood, folly, sin, and

wrong,

And sighing for thy motley coat again.

My steadfast heart shall know no fear;

That heart will rest on Thee.

SONNET TO HOPE.

Он, ever skilled to wear the form we love,

To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,

Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove

The lasting sadness of an aching heart.

Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;

That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,

Shall soften or shall chase misforBut come not glowing in the dazzling tune's gloom.

ray

Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye;

Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my way

The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die.

Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,

That asks not happiness, but longs for rest.

TO A CITY PIGEON.

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!

Thy daily visits have touched my love. I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,

And my joy is high

Why dost thou sit on the heated

eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves ?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet?

How canst thou bear

And thy glossy wings

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years;

And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this,

And I half renew my prime.

In the midst of your merry ring:

can feel the thrill of the daring

jump,

And the rush of the breathless

swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreari

ness

To see the young so gay.

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY."

TIRED of play! tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day?

The birds are silent, and so is the bee; The sun is creeping up steeple and

tree;

The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,

And

the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;