SONNET.

STORM had been on the hills. The day had worn
As if a sleep upon the hours had crept;
And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn

In dull, impenetrable masses slept,

And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.
Suddenly on the horizon's edge a blue

And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,

And as it wider and intenser grew,

The darkness removed silently away,

And, with the splendor of a God, broke through

The perfect glory of departing day—

So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er,

Will light upon

the dying Christian pour.

SONNET.

BEAUTIFUL robin! with thy feathers red Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree, Making thy little flights as thou art led

By things that tempt a simple one like theeI would that thou couldst warble me to tears As lightly as the birds of other years!

Idly to lie beneath an April sun,

Pressing the perfume from the tender grass;
To watch a joyous rivulet leap on
With the clear tinkle of a music glass,
And as I saw the early robin pass,

To hear him thro' his little compass runHath been a joy that I shall no more know Before I to my better portion go.

THE TABLE OF EMERALD.

"Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved before the flood the secret of alchemy that gives gold at will."

MOORE'S EPICUREAN.

THAT Emerald vast of the Pyramid—

Were I where it is laid,

I would ask no king for his weary crown,
As its mystic words were said.

The pomp of wealth, the show of power,
In vain for me would shine,

And nought that brings the mind a care

Would win bright gold of mine.

Would I feast all day-revel all night—
Laugh with a secret sadness?

Would I sleep away the breezy morn,
And wake to the goblet's madness?
Would I spend no time and no golden ore
For the wisdom that sages knew?

Would I run to waste with a human mind To its holy trust untrue?

Oh! knew I the depth of that emerald spell,
And had I the gold it brings,

I would never load with a mocking joy
My spirit's mounting wings.

I would bind no wreath to my brow to day
That would leave a stain to-morrow,

Nor drink a draught of joy to-night,

That would change with morn to sorrow.

But, oh, I would burst this chain of care,
And be spirit and fancy-free;

My mind should range where it longs to go
And the limitless wind outflee.

I would place my foot on my heaps of ore

To mount to Wisdom's throne,

And buy, with the wealth of an Indian mine,
To be left, of care, alone!

Ambition! my lip would laugh to scorn
Thy robe and thy gleaming sword!

I would follow sooner a woman's eye,
Or a child's imperfect word;

But come with the glory of human thought,
And the light of the scholar's brow,

And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,

And alone at thine altar bow.

There was one mild eye- there was one deep tone—

They were dear to this heart of mine!

Dearer to me was that mild blue eye

Than the lamp on wisdom's shrine.

My soul brought up from its deepest cell
The sum of its earthly love;

But it could not buy her wing from Heaven,
And she flew to her rest above.