11 MARCH 1876, Page 15

POETRY.

ONE DAY OUT OF SEVEN.

Brims cannot always sing ; Silence at times they ask, to nurse spent feeling ; To see some new, bright thing,

Ere a fresh burst of song, fresh joy revealing.

Flowers cannot always blow ; Some sabbath-rest they need of silent winter ; Ere from its sheath below

Shoots up a small, green blade, brown earth to splinter.

Tongues cannot always speak ;

0 God ! in this loud world of noise and clatter, Save us this once-a-week,

To let the sown seed grow, not always scatter. B.