And however gay the music, chords of sadness strike my heart,

Chords of sadness mix'd with gladness, for on earth all is

not woe,

We may still count friends as treasures though death's dark stream us may part,

And dear scenes our own still reckon though time's tides between us flow.

THE FORMAL GARDEN.

In a close low hill-girt midland valley
Pass'd I through a pleasure-garden trim;
Here a blank-faced statue, there an alley
Of close-shaven yew-trees damp and dim.

Here a dial with a pompous motto,

There a fountain squirting in a tank;
Here a colour'd glass and shell-deck'd grotto,
There a formal walk on terrace bank.

Here a wide-cut and pretentious vista
Ending at a temple of cement,

With an avenue its own twin sister,

Where a Dutchman's heart would rest content.

Are those fish alive, or imitations,

Which in yonder semicircle swim?

Made by hand those formal pine plantations
Out of pasteboard to his lordship's whim?

Well, indeed, my lord,

you

banish'd Nature,

Nobly over her with shears you reign; If she does but show one single feature, Clip! it vanishes from your domain.

Well, indeed, my lord, you have succeeded,
Well you've squared your garden to your mind;
For all know that from your mind is weeded

Everything that Nature had design'd.

A PICTURE.*

BENEATH a pine in Nargon's waveworn isle
A young girl sat; her long unbraided hair
Flow'd in pale streaming ripples, and her eyes
Shone brightly in the Baltic's briny air,
(Dark-blue were they, and full of sweet surprise);
And she, all habited in simple guise,

A fisher's net was mending, and the while,
Silently gazing, lay an English lad

Beside her; his young face, devoid of guile,
Gloating upon the treasure which he had
Open before him. They no common tongue

Could speak; and yet they spoke, and understood
Each one the other's meaning,-love's voice rung
In silent glances, and their souls subdued.

* From R. J. Hughes's "Log of the Pet."

GOD HELP THE ENGLISH POOR!

O LORD, how long? how long shall Thy beloved
Faint in hard bond-chains in the land of freedom?
O Lord, how long? how long from dawn to daylight
Shall Thy poor labour, under-paid, unrestful;
While their strength lasteth toiling without respite,
When their strength faileth set aside uncared for?

The bleak wind blew across the fen,

The snow fell on the moor,
When on a cold stone-heap I found
One of the English poor.

A wizen'd, wither'd man was he
Of threescore years and ten,
And no warm coat defended him

From the wind across the fen.