SONNET 10 W. P.

O bound to me by more than ties of blood,
By human sympathy and generous aid,
Which have aroused within me all the good,

And given strong hope to that which was dismayed,
Thy roof hath sheltered me for many a day :

Thy hand hath lifted me from many a fall :

Thy voice lath often cheered the toilsome way.

Look on these lines as shadows on a wall

(Which of some substance must the reflex be),

And call them the reflection of a heart
Now running o'er with gratitude to thee,
Which feeble language cannot all impart :
Draw largely on my wealth of love at pleasure,
Nor by weak words my deep devotion measure.

SPRING TIME.

Of all the days in the changing year
O give me the sweet later spring,

When the fair May faints at the bright June's birth
And dies while the nightingales sing.

We live again in those incensed hours
The happiest days of our lives :

We grow with the flowers and the freshening showers,

And the bloom on our fancy revives.

We are young once more when the fields are green,
And fresh as the cowslip and rose :
We drink an elixir of magical power

In each exquisite zephyr that blows.

We praise our God, and we love His earth; We know that His creatures are fair ;

And we find sweet music in each clear rill, And a choir in the birds of the air.

We see that the beautiful valley of life,
As our Father has made it, is sweet :
And we pass along with a joyous song,

And we check our hurrying feet.

R. I. P.

One spirit more before The Throne
Is bathed in light we dare not see :
As yet we can but trust and trust,
And credit all that is to be.

O truest friend! O kindest heart!
Dear life, so early gone to rest :
It were not well to wish thee back,

Or lift thee from the Sacred Breast.

I

pass about a heedless world,

And feel a grief I cannot speak :

I know my thoughts of thee are sweet,

Though all the words I write were weak.

Echo, Echo, Echo,

ECHO.

So clear, distinct and still ;

I hear it coming towards me

From the hollow under the hill.

Echo, Echo, Echo;

The echo of one dear name,

Passing into the distance

On pinions of crimson flame.

Echo, Echo, Echo;

The echo of all my song,

Lost in life's vast commotion

And the great world's restless throng.

Echo, Echo, Echo;

Where will it sink to rest?

Will it fail to find a welcome,

And return to die in my breast ?

Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London.