3 MARCH 1888, Page 15

POETRY.

BLEAK is the wind and all the woods are bare, No rift of blue gladdens the wintry sky ; But Nature mourns her lover with a sigh,

Hiding beneath a snow-white veil her care ; Ah ! well he wooed her when her face was fair

In the warm summer, 'midst his Yorkshire hills ; And dear to him the music of her rills, And dear the stillness of the moorland air.

O loyal Painter ! steadfast to thy vow, Scorner of men who make Art merchandise !

O loyal Friend ! weak though these words be now, Sweet are the memories that bedim my eyes ; Farewell ! God's love has called thee to thy rest Bless'd are the pure in heart and thou are blest !

30112( DENNIS.