Is there a leaf that greenly grows
Where summer meadows bloom,
But gathering the winter snows,
And changeth to the hue of those,
If lasting till they come?

Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round

With sad associate thoughts the same?
And so to me my very name

Assumes a mournful sound.

My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain;
When names acquired baptismally
Were hard to utter, as to see
That life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save one

Of chestnuts from the hill

And through the wood our laugh did run
As part thereof! The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that
faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd;
Their thoughts I cannot measure;
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

190

SONNET.

From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

Sonnet.

WORDSWORTH.

'OME, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

The baiting-place of wit, the balm.

of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's

release,

The indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the

prease

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw

O make in me those civil wars to cease :
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.

And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

192

THE SEMPSTRESS.

Those eyes, for ever drooping, give
The long brown lashes rarely;
But violets in the shadows live-
For once unveil them fairly!

Hast thou not cut that flounce enough,
Of looks so long and earnest ?
Lo! here's more "penetrable stuff,”
To which thou never turnest.

Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
How slender, and how nimble !

Oh! might I wind their skeins of thread,
Or but pick up their thimble!

How blest the youth whom love shall bring,

And happy stars embolden,

To change the dome into a ring,

The silver into golden!—

Who'll steal some morning to her side,
To take her finger's measure,
While Mary Anne pretends to chide,
And blushes deep with pleasure!—

Who'll watch her sew her wedding gown,
Well conscious that it is hers!

Who'll glean a tress, without a frown,
With those so ready scissors !—

Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
The fragrant and delicious-