JOHN CLARE.

1793-1864.

THE LAST OF APRIL.

OLD April wanes, and her last dewy morn

Her death-bed steeps in tears ;-to hail the May
New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born,

And all poor April's charms are swept away.

The early primrose, peeping once so gay,

Is now choked up with many a mounting weed,

And the poor violet we once admired

Creeps in the grass unsought for; flowers succeed,

Gaudy and new, and more to be desired,

And of the old the schoolboy seemeth tired.

So with us all, poor April, as with thee !

Each hath his day;-the future brings my fears:
Friends may grow weary, new flowers rising be,
And my last end, like thine, be steeped in tears.

A voice He set as in a temple-shrine,

That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by

Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine.

And though too oft its low, celestial sound

By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drowned,

And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste;

Yet the great ocean hath no tone of power

Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hushed hour,

Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced !

FELICIA D.
HEMANS.

1794-1835.

FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

WHITHER, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?

What solemn region first upon thy sight

Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight?
What hosts, magnificent in dread array,
My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay,
After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest !

The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest,
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves, by fits revealed,
A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.
Thou art that bird !—of what beyond thee lies
Far in the untracked, immeasurable skies

Knowing but this-that thou shalt find thy Guide!

FELICIA D.
HEMANS.

SABBATH SONNET.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending

1794-1835. Through England's primrose meadow-paths their way

Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascend

ing,

Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!

The halls from old heroic ages gray

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,

With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread

With them those pathways,-to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness !

WILLIAM
SIDNEY

WALKER.

1795-1846.

BEAUTIFUL IN DEATH.

THEY say that thou wert lovely on thy bier,

More lovely than in life; that when the thrall

Of earth was loosed, it seemed as though a pall
Of years were lifted, and thou didst appear
Such, as of old amidst thy home's calm sphere
Thou sat'st, a kindly Presence felt by all

In joy or grief, from morn to evening-fall,

The peaceful Genius of that mansion dear.

Was it the craft of all persuading Love

That wrought this marvel? or is Death indeed

A mighty master, gifted from above

With alchemy benign, to wounded hearts

Minist'ring thus, by quaint and subtle arts,

Strange comfort, whereon after-thought may feed?