Sonnet.

SAD is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing

In current unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing—
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing-
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A nearer good to cure an older ill; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them

Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

AUBREY DE VERE.

The Soul's Wefiance.

I SAID to sorrow's awful storm,

That beat against my breast,

Rage on!-thou may'st destroy this form,

And lay it low at rest;

But still the spirit that now brooks

Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks, With steadfast eye.

I said to penury's meagre train,
Come on! your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures

Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.

Whilst eyes that change ere night

Make glad the day,

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou! and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Stanzas.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,

Is scattered on the ground-to 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 treeBut 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!
RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

No More.

My wind has turned to bitter north, That was so soft a south before; My sky, that shone so sunny bright, With foggy gloom is clouded o'er; My gay green leaves are yellow-black Upon the dank autumnal floor; For love, departed once, comes back No more again, no more.