SONNET.

ON THE PROJECTED KENDAL AND WINDERMERE RAILWAY.

Is there no nook of English ground secure
From rash assault? Schemes of retirement

sown

In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure
As when their earliest flowers of hope were

blown,

Must perish: how can they this blight endure? And must he too his old delights disown

Who scorns a false utilitarian lure

'Mid his paternal fields at random thrown? Baffle the threat, bright scene, from Orresthead

Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance!
Plead for thy peace, thou, beautiful romance
Of nature; and if human hearts be dead,
Speak passing winds, ye torrents, with your
strong

And constant voice, protest against the wrong!

WORDSWORTH.

Jove spake to men-take it, my boon is free; 'Tis marked your heritage through endless time, Share it, like brethren, lovingly.

Quick hies the busy race, athirst for gain;
To seek their portion young and old repair:
The tiller took the fields and golden grain;
The huntsman tracked the forest lair;

The merchant garners all his varied store;
The abbot claims the juice of purple hue;
The king has barred the stream and highway
o'er,

And cries, "A tenth of all is due."

Ah! last of all-too late-each part assigned,
From some far distant scene the poet came;
No vacant spot his wandering glances find,
No soil but owns a master's name.

THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH.

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"Oh! woe is me! for all thy gifts abound, And portionless thou leavest thy faithful

son !"

Thus while his loud laments to heaven resound, He fell before th' eternal throne.

"If in the land of dreams, and Fancy's reign,

Fondly thou lingerest, then reproach not me; Where wert thou, Bard, when every share was ta'en ?"

"I was," the poet cried, " with thee!

"My ravished eye thy glorious face surveyed, My rapt ear drank the music of the skies! Forgive the soul by ecstacy betrayed,

That lost earth's dull realities!"

Then thus the Ruler, from his lofty throne:"Content thee, Poet! thou hast failed to

share

One portion girdled by the aqueous zone;
Take undivided empire of the Air!"

ANON.

AN APRIL HYMN.

FOUNTAIN of good-dear God!-thou that dost

make

The sap to flow,

And, safe from floods, the snowdrop's trance dost wake,

Far 'neath the snow,

Why o'er the heart still leavest thou to break Rivers of woe?

It must be that the heart offendeth thee-
That there is wrong

Somewhere in secret, which no eye can see,
Some sin too strong-

Thou that hast Friend and Father been to me,
My poor life long!

A soul of sorrow liveth in the flowers
That seem so glad;

It floats and breathes along the lustrous hours,
As if it had

A privilege immortal, which empowers

To make me sad.

AN APRIL HYMN.

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I must have wandered from the one bright way

So early taught,

The sense of transport could not else decay,
Which thou hadst wrought

Into the eternal spirit of this clay

With each spring thought!

Well I remember how I thrilled, to mark
The soft hours roll,

That brought the violet to my lonely ark!—
I near life's goal;

But that Old Spring is past, and ye are dark,
My Days of Soul!

'Tis well to be a mourner,-well to feel
My glad hope die;

And sicken at the tears that daily steal
O'er the dimmed eye,

If this strong desolation should reveal
Where my sins lie.

Oh! tenderest chastener! whom in love, not fear,
I dare adore,

Offending whom, I have no comfort here
On this green floor!

Forgive! or when the flowers are on their bier,
Wake me no more!

E. L. MONTAGU.