7 JANUARY 1899, Page 25

POETRY.

ONLY A SONG.

LOVE says not much, but says it, oh ! so well,

We cannot tell What is the meaning of its secret spell.

Its charm divine Is like the murmur of a sounding shell, Heard in the pauses of the ocean's swell, In Beauty's oft-recurring parallel.

Its feeling line, Artless of rule, yet more than rules of art Unconscious pierces, probes, with inward smart The lover's breast, the patriot's swelling heart.

Its music fine Is such, that if the singer break his song, And stop, the very spheres seem all a-wrong ; We bid him take his late, and sweet and strong Renew his strain.

"0 singer, sing once more the old refrain!

And Echo faint its burden still prolong In memory's chain!

And lest it perish, being only song, Sing it again !

Again ! again !" A. G. B.