29 NOVEMBER 1884, Page 14

SONNET.

I TO AN INVALID LADY, ON HER HUSBAND'S DEATH.]

DEAR lady, sorrow-sainted, whose long pain

Rebuked us by its smile, or hushed, like songs The sad, retired nightingale prolongs From depth of holy wood or dim green lane, God waits a new smile from thee, as He turns A new smile on thee, and would draw forth praise From holier shades, and tune thee to upraise The new song where the beauty solemn burns.

Death is the touch lets loose love's eloquence As never it could speak in its young dream ; The very Love Eternal could not seem Most winsome till it died, nor most intense.

0, called to pain, but chos'n to sorrow, know The Eternal song that sounds in Christian woe.

P. T. FORSYTH.