For who should have, I trow,
Such joyance in the glow

And pleasance of the May,-
In all sweet bells that blow,
In death of Winter's woe

And birth of Springtide gay,

When in woodwalk and row
Hand-linked the lovers go,—

As he to whom alway

God giveth day by day

To set to roundelay

Life's sad and sunny hours,—

To weave into a lay

Life's golden years and gray,

Its sweet and bitter flowers,—

To sweep, with hands that stray

In many a devious way,

Its harp of sun and showers?

Nor in this life of ours,

Whereon the sky oft lowers,

Is any lovelier thing.

Than in the wild wood bowers

The cloud of green that towers,
The blithe birds welcoming

The vivid vernal hours

Among the painted flowers

And all the pomp of Spring.

U

True, Life is on the wing,
And all the birds that sing,

And all the flowers that be

Amid the glow and ring,
The pomp and glittering

Of Spring's sweet pageantry,
Have here small sojourning,-
And all our sweet hours bring

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
The flowers our dead Springs wore

And scent of blossomed leas :

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
The soul from Life's disease

Of strife and sorrowing,

In glass of memories

The new hope looks and sees

Through Death a brighter Spring.

JOHN PAYNE

CCXIV.

[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!

VILLANELLE.

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!
Yet you used not to sigh
When I saw you last, Rose !
How fast the time goes!

AUSTIN DOBSON.