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.