True, Life is on the wing,
And all the birds that sing,

And all the flowers that be

Amid the glow and ring,
The pomp and glittering

Of Spring's sweet pageantry,
Have here small sojourning,-
And all our sweet hours bring

Death nearer, as they flee.

Yet this thing learn of me :

The sweet hours fair and free

That we have had of yore,

The fair things we did see,

The linked melody

Of waves upon the shore

That rippled in their glee,—

Are not lost utterly,

Though they return no more.

But in the true heart's core

Thought treasures evermore

The tune of birds and breeze;

And there the slow years store
The flowers our dead Springs wore

And scent of blossomed leas :

There murmur o'er and o'er

The sound of woodlands hoar

With newly burgeoned trees.

So for the sad soul's ease

Remembrance treasures these

Against Time's harvesting,

That so, when mild Death frees
The soul from Life's disease

Of strife and sorrowing,

In glass of memories

The new hope looks and sees

Through Death a brighter Spring.

JOHN PAYNE

[VILLANELLE.]

@HEN I saw you last, Rose,

You were only so high ;

How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows,

You just peeped at the sky

When I saw you last, Rose !

Now your petals unclose,

Now your May-time is nigh ;—

How fast the time goes!

You would prattle your woes,

All the wherefore and why,

When I saw you last, Rose!

Now you leave me to prose,

And you seldom reply ;

How fast the time goes!

And a life,-how it grows!
You were scarcely so shy
When I saw you last, Rose!

In your bosom it shows

There's a guest on the sly; (How fast the time goes!)

Is it Cupid? Who knows!

Yet you used not to sigh When I saw you last, Rose! How fast the time goes!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

[VILLANELLE.]

SUMMER-TIME, so passing sweet,
But heavy with the breath of flowers,
But languid with the fervent heat,

They chide amiss who call thee fleet,-
Thee, with thy weight of daylight hours,
O Summer-time, so passing sweet!

Young Summer, thou art too replete,

Too rich in choice of joys and powers, But languid with the fervent heat.

Adieu! my face is set to meet

Bleak Winter, with his pallid showersO Summer-time, so passing sweet!

Old Winter steps with swifter feet,
He lingers not in wayside bowers,
He is not languid with the heat;