ལ་

Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with

sun,

So through his trial faith translucent rayed,
Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed

A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun.

Surely if skill in song the shears may stay,
And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss,
If our poor life be lengthened by a lay,
He shall not go, although his presence may,

And the next age in praise shall double this.

Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet
As gracious natures find his song to be;
May Age steal on with softly cadenced feet
Falling in music, as for him were meet

Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

LONGFELLOW.

IN MEMORIAM.

Nec turpem senectam
Degere, nec cithara carentem.

"NoT to be tuneless in old age!".

Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage,

Who, in his winter's snow,

Still sings with note as sweet and clear

As in the morning of the year

When the first violets blow!

Blest!-but more blest, whom summer's heat,
Whom spring's impulsive stir and beat,
Have taught no feverish lure;
Whose Muse, benignant and serene,
Still keeps his autumn chaplet green
Because his verse is pure!

Lie calm, O white and laureate head!
Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead,

Since from the voiceless grave

Thy voice shall speak to old and young
While song yet speaks our English tongue
By Charles' or Thamis' wave.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

HOUSE.

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself?
Do I live in a house you would like to see?
Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf?

"Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?"

Invite the world, as my betters have done? "Take notice: this building remains on view, Its suites of reception every one,

Its private apartment and bedroom too;

"For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." No: thanking the public, I must decline. A peep through my window, if folk prefer;

But please you, no foot over threshold of mine!

I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced