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Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

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A six years' darling of a pigmy size!

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Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

lies,

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Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

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Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 10 Strength in what remains behind; 180 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;

In the primal sympathy

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

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ON

In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

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SONNETS

THE EXTINCTION OF THE

VENETIAN REPUBLIC

Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee; And was the safeguard of the west: the worth

Of Venice did not fall below her birth,

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Milton! thou should'st be living at this
hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and
bower,

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Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Have forfeited their ancient English Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the

dower

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Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER
BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more
fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:

This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 5
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and tem-
ples lie

year; And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH
US

The world is too much with us: late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

ΙΟ

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