29 MAY 1880, Page 14

POETRY.

CIRCUMSTANCE.

IN vain thou strivest, thou canst not be free, Poor captive, whom the dreary bonds of Fate,. Closing in narrower folds, incarcerate Within the prison-house of Destiny :— Fate of thy parents' blood, too strong for thee,.

Fate of thine acts, repented of too late, Fate born of joy and grief, and love and hate, Doomed long ago to this catastrophe.

0 Fate ! we weave thee round our piteous lives With our own hands—our foolish hands and light-- Not dreaming that thy webs are iron gyves, Forged to o'ercrush us in our hearts' despite :— In every murmur at each new mischance, Is heard the tireless march of Circumstance.

W. L. COURTNEY,