SONNET. I almost wish it were my trust, 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, I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 167 Lament of the Irish Emigrant. 'M sittin' on the stile, Mary, On a bright May mornin' long ago, 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, 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near- I see the spire from here. 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, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; 169 And often, in those grand old woods, And my heart will travel back again 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, Are words and passions of despairing breath : 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.] |