SONNET.

I almost wish it were my trust,
To teach how shocking that is;
I wish I had not, as I must,

To quit this tempting lattice!

Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe,

Across a street so narrow;

A thread of silk to string his bow,

A needle for his arrow!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Sonnet.

OME, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw ;
O make in me those civil wars to cease:

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image sec.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

167

Lament of the Irish Emigrant.

'M sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin' fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high—

And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my car,
And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listenin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary,

I see the spire from here.
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends, But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends!

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride : There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

169

And often, in those grand old woods,
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side;

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,

When first you were my

bride.

HON. MRS. PRICE BLACKWOOD.

Human Life.

HY life's a warfare, thou a soldier art,
Satan's thy foeman, and a faithful heart
Thy two-edged weapon, patience a shield,
Heaven is thy chieftain, and the world thy field.
To be afraid to die, or wish for death,

Are words and passions of despairing breath :
Who doth the first, the day doth faintly yield;
And who the second, basely flies the field.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

[FRANCIS QUARLES, a partisan of Charles I. in the great civil war, wrote a "Book of Emblems," or rather a set of short poems, in illustration of a number of pictures. In many of these poems there are

thoughts of value, embodied in not unpleasing verse; and the book has escaped the oblivion which has descended on the rest of the author's works. Quarles died in 1644.]