SONNET.
Oh! she was young, and beautiful, and good,
But called away, while Age toils faintly on:—
Gone to the voiceless land of shadows—gone
In the bright morning of her womanhood.
Cheered by the blue-bird’s warble of delight,
Springtime, the tender childhood of the year,
With bursting bud and sprouting grass is here,
And Nature breathes of resurrection bright:
It seems unmeet that one so fair should die,