Plying her needle

States

४

stitche

stitch

In poverty, hunger, & dist влад And still

pours

in unwom

гадо

unwomanly rags

& Thrand

Wor

& red

み

a voice of dolorous dolorous putes, could react

tone

care

sary this song of the Sheit!

Mr. Hors

I was Ever thus ! _ Euch hour that came,

Ка пес
The Rich

Still moremitting, bought.

дие

Some newer form of guif or shame, for thought.

Some newer

M. Wilmine fuimes.

SAD is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In current unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sow-
ing,

But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blow-

And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A nearer good to cure an older ill;

And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize
them,

Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

ing, And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet;

AUBREY DE VERE.

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
GOING.
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and
dies;

seen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes
blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light:
The breath of the moist air is light
Around its unexpanded buds ;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods',

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows