28 JANUARY 1888, Page 16

POETRY.

THE FRESHER SPRING TIME.

IT comes again, thrilling each sense in turn !

We strain the eye to see, the ear to hear ;— It sickens in each sense and dies of fear, Yet leaves the spirit tiptoe-set to learn.

We, wondering, look on all sides to discern Aught of its leaving ; turning quick to peer Into the by-ways of the soul, crying, "Who goes here ?"

But answer comes not, though the temples burn.

What is it ? Who can tell ?—but this we feel, The moment is as though a rich new birth Fought with the old to give us liberty :— The pulse of newness makes the senses reel, The long-loved past is as a dream, and earth, Ocean, and sky are quick with mystery !

JOHN HOGBEN.