ENGLISH SONNETS. 30 



And let the day be long enough to mourn 



The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth ; 



Let watery eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 



Without the troubles of the night's untruth. 

 Cease, dreams, fond image of my fond desires, 



To model forth the passions of to-morrow ! 



Let never rising sun approve your tears, 

 To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow ; 



Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 



And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 



We come now to John Milton. From several specimens given of 

 his sonnets we select that 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

 WHEN J consider how my light is spent 



Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 



And that one talent which is death to hide, 



Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 

 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 



My true account, lest he, returning, chide ; 



Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? 



I fondly ask but Patience, to prevent 

 That murmur, soon replies God doth not need 



Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 



Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 

 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 



And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 



They also serve who only stand and wait. 



The circumstances under which the above sonnet was written give 

 it a touching interest. 



Of the sonnets written by Gray, Mr Housman only gives the fol- 

 lowing. It is 



ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST. 



IN vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 



And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire ; 



The birds in vain their amorous descant join ; 



Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. 

 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine, 



A different object do these ears require; 



My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 



And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 

 Yet morning smiles, the busy race to cheer, 



And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ; 



The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ; 

 To warm their litttle loves the birds complain : 



I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 



And weep the more because I weep in vain. 



The only sonnet of Sir Egerton Brydges which Mr. Housman 

 gives is that on " Echo and Silence." It is the most beautiful, per- 

 haps, in the English language. We have much pleasure in trans- 

 ferring it to our columns. 



ECHO AND SILENCE. 



In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 

 And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, 

 As, mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 

 Through glens untrod, and woods that frown'd on high, 



