True, Life is on the wing, And all the flowers that be Amid the glow and ring, Of Spring's sweet pageantry, Death nearer, as they flee. Yet this thing learn of me : The sweet hours fair and free That we have had of yore, The fair things we did see, The linked melody Of waves upon the shore That rippled in their glee,— Are not lost utterly, Though they return no more. But in the true heart's core Thought treasures evermore The tune of birds and breeze; And there the slow years store There murmur o'er and o'er The sound of woodlands hoar With newly burgeoned trees. So for the sad soul's ease Remembrance treasures these Against Time's harvesting, That so, when mild Death frees Of strife and sorrowing, In glass of memories The new hope looks and sees Through Death a brighter Spring. JOHN PAYNE [VILLANELLE.] HEN I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high ; How fast the time goes! Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky When I saw you last, Rose! Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh;— How fast the time goes! You would prattle your woes, All the wherefore and why, When I saw you last, Rose ! Now you leave me to prose, And you seldom reply ; How fast the time goes! And a life,-how it grows! You were scarcely so shy When I saw you last, Rose! In your bosom it shows There's a guest on the sly; (How fast the time goes!) Is it Cupid? Who knows! AUSTIN DOBSON. [VILLANELLE.] SUMMER-TIME, so passing sweet, But heavy with the breath of flowers, But languid with the fervent heat, They chide amiss who call thee fleet,― Young Summer, thou art too replete, Adieu! my face is set to meet Bleak Winter, with his pallid showersO Summer-time, so passing sweet! Old Winter steps with swifter feet, |