SONNET.

s P r N C
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It is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone
Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep
In.their great mothers iced bosom deep


For months, or that the birds, more joyo grown,
Catch once again their silver summer tone,
And they who late from bough to bough did creep,
Now trim their plnmes upon some sunny steep,
And seem to sing of winter overthrown.
No-with an equal march the immortal mind,
AS though it never could be left behind,


Keeps pace with every movement of the year;
And (for high truths are born in happiness)
As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear,
And sees beyond the slaves or bigot's guess