SONNET.

O LOVE, whom I in early dreams have seen,

White hovering over every human thing,

Where is the temple rivalling the sheen

That snow-topped mountains to the morning fling?

Where is thy altar with the roseate flame,

All garlanded with flowers like the spring,

Where my young spirit with its glories came,

The star-gemmed dews of budding thought to bring?

O love! the offerings of those boyish days

Were laid in burning reverence on thy shrine,

But could I now collect the scattered rays,

And in a single star their light combine,

That star could never guide me to believe;

Nor would thy temple tempt me from my gloom,

Though fairer than the silvery clouds of eve,

Swept by the golden garments of the moon.

W.