L'ENVOI

HOLD within my hand a lute,
A lute that hath not many strings.
A little bird above it sings,

And singing soars and claps its wings;

Sing, little bird; when thou art mute,
The music dies within my lute.

Sing on, thou little bird, until

I hear a voice expected long,

That bids an after-silence fill

The space that once was filled with song.
Then fold thy wings upon my breast,
Upon my heart, and give it rest.

DORA GREENWELL.

BOOK II.

Sonnets.

THE SINGER'S PLEA.

HY do I sing? I know not why, my friend;
The ancient rivers, rivers of renown,
A royal largess to the sea roll down,

And on those liberal highways nations send
Their tributes to the world,-stored corn and wine,
Gold-dust, the wealth of pearls, and orient spar,
And myrrh, and ivory, and cinnabar,

And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine.
But in the woodlands, where the wild flowers are,
The rivulets, they must have their innocent will
Who all the summer hours are singing still;
The birds care for them, and sometimes a star,
And should a tired child rest beside the stream,
Sweet memories would slide into his dream.

EDWARD DOWDEN.