And a piteous way of sighing

From the leaves when they were dying,
And the music of the nightingales
With all his own combined;

Yea, he stole indeed some phrases
Of mystic hymns of praises,
The heaven itself is perfecting
Out of the earthly things ;

And with these he did so fashion

The poem of his passion,

The lady still is listening,

And still the poet sings!

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

HEN Spring comes laughing

By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,

Sing stars of morning,

Sing morning skies,
Sing blue of speedwell,
And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,

Full-leaved and strong,

And gay birds gossip

The orchard long,—

Sing hid, sweet honey

That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses,

And my Love's lips.

When Autumn scatters

The leaves again,

And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain,

Sing flutes of harvest

Where men rejoice;

Sing rounds of reapers,
And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,

And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,

Sing first sad going

Of friends that part ;

Then sing glad meeting

And my

Love's heart.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

WILD ROSE.

O call My Lady where she stood

"A Wild-Rose blossom of the wood,"
Makes but a poor similitude.

For who by such a slight would reach
An aim, consumes the worth in speech,
And sets a crimson rose to bleach.

My Love, whose store of household sense
Gives duty golden recompense,

And arms her goodness with defence :

The sweet reliance of whose gaze
Originates in gracious ways,

And wins that trust the trust repays :

Whose stately figure's varying grace
Is never seen unless her face
Turn beaming toward another place;

For such a halo round it glows,
Surprised attention only knows
A lively wonder in repose.

Can flowers that breathe one little day
In odorous sweetness life away,
And wavering to the earth decay,

Have any claim to rank with her,
Warmed in whose soul impulses stir
Then bloom to goodness; and aver

Her worth through spheral joys shall move
When suns and systems cease above,

And nothing lives but perfect Love?

THOMAS WOOLNER.