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Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn,
Thou who canst love us, though thou read'st us

true !
As on the bosom of the aerial dawn

Melts in dim haze each coarse, ungentle hue.

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Scorn not the Sonnet; critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains, -alas, too few!

EXPERIENCE. — Jane Taylor.

How false is found, as on in life we go,
Our early estimate of bliss and woe!
Some sparkling joy attracts us, that we fain
Would sell a precious birthright to obtain.

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There all our hopes of happiness are placed ;
Life looks without it like a joyless waste ;
No good is prized, no comfort sought beside,
Prayers, tears, implore, and will not be denied.
Heaven pitying hears the intemperate, rude appeal,
And suits its answer to our truest weal;
The self-sought idol, if at last bestowed,
Proves what

our wilfulness required, - a goad. Ne'er but as needful chastisement is given The wish thus forced, and torn, and stormed from

But if withheld, in pity, from our prayer,
We rave a while of torment and despair,
Refuse each proffered comfort with disdain,
And slight the thousand blessings that remain.
Meantime Heaven bears the grievous wrong, and waits,
In patient pity, till the storm abates ;
Applies with gentlest hand the healing balm,
Or speaks the rusfied mind into a calm ;
Deigning, perhaps, to show the mourner soon
’T was special mercy that denied the boon.

Our blasted hopes, our aims and wishes crost,
Are worth the tears and agonies they cost,
When the poor mind, by fruitless efforts spent,
With food and raiment learns to be content.
Bounding with youthful hope, the restless mind
Leaves that divine monition far behind ;
And, tamed at length by suffering, comprehends
The tranquil happiness to which it tends ;
Perceives the high-wrought bliss it aimed to share,
Demands a richer soil, a purer air, —
That 't is not fitted, and would strangely grace
The mean condition of our mortal race;
And all we need in this terrestrial spot
Is colin contentment with “the common lot.”






Say, Henry, should a man of mind

Sigh o'er his brittle crust,
Or grieve because he is not joined

To fibres more robust?

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Look at bent lilies as you walk,

How elegantly thin!
Yet well the fragrance from that stalk

Proclaims the power within.

Look at the bird with glossiest wings,

Yet sweeter taste than plume,
That scuds, that murmurs, sips, and sings,

And feasts upon perfume.

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Look at the sex, whose form may vaunt

More grace than bird or rose;
What fine infirmities enchant,

What frailty charms, in those !

Great minds with energetic thought

Wear out their shell of clay,
Yet at each crevice light is caught,

Till all is mental day.

Then, Henry, let no man of mind

Sigh o'er his brittle crust,
Or grieve because he is not joined

To fibres more robust.

SONNET. - J. R. Lowell.

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THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast past,
To show us what a woman true may be ;
They have not taken sympathy from thee,
Nor made thee any other than thou wast;
Save as some tree, which, in a sudden blast,
Sheddeth those blossoms that were weakly grown
Upon the air, but keepeth every one
Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last;
So thou hast shed some blooms of gayety,
But never one of steadfast cheerfulness,
Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity
Robbed thee of any faith in happiness,
But rather cleared thine inner eyes to see
How many simple ways there are to bless.




Long I followed happy guides,
I could never reach their sides.
Their step is forth, and ere the day
Breaks up their leaguer and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right good-will my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet.
Flowers they strew, I catch the scent,
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace,
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I met many travellers,
Who the road had surely kept,
They saw not my

fine revellers,
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fine report,
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken;
In sleep their jubilant troop is near,
I tuneful voices overhear,

be in wood or waste,
At unawares 't is come and passed.

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