ENGLISH SONNETS. 41 



And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. 

 But now I find how dear thou wert to me ; 



That man is more than half of Nature's treasure, 



Of that fair Beauty which no eye can see, 

 Of that sweet Music which no ear can measure : 



And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure, 



The hills sleep on in their eternity. 



Passing over several other sonnets from contemporaries, we come 

 to one which has much tender feeling in it. It is by Mr. Charles 

 Strong, and is headed 



DEATH. 



They picture Death a tyrant, gaunt and grim, 



And, for his random aim, temper a dart 



Of bite so mortal that the fiery smart 



Consumes, and turns to dust the stoutest limb. 

 Thus dire to meet, yet shrink not they from him, 



Who walk, by faith, in singleness of heart ; 



The simply wise, who choose the watchful part, 



Nor let their eyelids close, or lamps grow dim. 

 Nor always dark and terrible his mien ; 



As those who by the couch the night-watch keep 



Have known, spectators of the blessed scene, 

 When friends, who stand around, joy more than weep, 



As, with hush'd step, and smile of love serene, 



In the soft guise he comes of gentle Sleep. 



The last sonnet given by Mr. Housman shall be our last one also. 

 It is by Mr. Edmund Peel, and i? addressed 



TO WINTER. 



THOU of the snowy vest and hoary hair, 



With icicles down-hanging, Winter, hail ! 



Not mine at thy authority to rail ; 



To call thee stern, bleak, comfortless, and bare, 

 As though thou wert twin-brother of Despair ; 



Rather shall praises in my song prevail ; 



Praises of Him who gives us to inhale 



The freshness of the uninfected air. 

 So long as I behold the clear blue sky, 



The carol of the robin-redbreast hear, 



Along the frozen waters seem to fly, 

 Or, softly cushion'd while the fire burns clear 



Bask in the light of a beloved eye ; 



So long shall Winter to my soul be dear. 



We are unwilling to find fault with an author whose labours have 

 afforded so much pleasure. But we cannot part with Mr. Housman 

 without asking him why and wherefore he has devoted so much of 

 his space to certain of our contemporary poets, while he has not even 

 given a single sonnet from others ? Mr. David Lester Richardson 

 has written several beautiful sonnets though others from his pen are 

 doubtless poor enough and yet his name is not even mentioned. 

 This, however, is an oversight which we could willingly overlook as 

 probably the result of accident ; but we hold it to be an unpardonable 

 sin in Mr. Housman to have omitted all reference to the sonnets of 



