SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS.-Milton.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless (though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide),
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

"T is ever thus,—'t is ever thus, when Hope hath

built a bower

Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower,

To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, A whirlwind from the desert comes, and "all is in the dust."

heart clings

't is ever thus, that, when the poor

With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,

That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fas., Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.

'T is ever thus, - 't is ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss,

With looks too bright and beautiful for such a work 1

as this;

One moment round about us their angel lightnings

play,

Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath passed away.

'Tis ever thus, - 't is ever thus, with sounds toc sweet for earth,

Seraphic sounds, that float away (borne heavenward) in their birth;

The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute.

'T is ever thus, - 't is ever thus, with all that 's best below,

The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go; The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock,

The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock.

-

"T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair,

Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly creatures bear;

A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of

love,

Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.

EMPLOYMENT.— George Herbert.

IF, as a flower doth spread and die,
Thou wouldst extend me to some good,
Before I were by frost's extremity
Nipt in the bud,—

The sweetness and the praise were thine; But the extension and the room, Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine At thy great doom.

For as thou dost impart thy grace,
The greater shall our glory be.
The measure of our joys is in this place,
The stuff with thee.

Let me not languish, then, and spend
A life as barren to thy praise

As is the dust, to which that life doth tend,
But with delays.

All things are busy; only I

Neither bring honey with the bees, Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry To water these.

I am no link of thy great chain,
But all my company is as a weed.

Lord, place me in thy concert, give one strain
To my poor reed.

THE ISLES OF GREECE. — Byron.

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian Muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse,
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo farther west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon, -
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;

For, standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations; all were his!
He counted them at break of day,
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now,

The heroic bosom beats no more!

And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

"T is something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla.

What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one, arise,
we come, we come!
'T is but the living who are dumb.

In vain,

in vain; strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call,
How answers each bold bacchanal !

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?