Yet, still, amid the ruin may we trace Full testimonial of its former grace: Though on the floor, erst now "the presence strew'd" The busy partlet leads her cackling brood, Still we behold the oaken roof on high In all the pride of gothic majesty ! And midst the storms of fate exists unmoved ; Thus Wolsey, as in history's page we scan, When fall'n a prelate-rose the better man : From regal state, and outward greatness hurl'd, He learn'd to scorn the "glories of the world:" Then o'er his faults his virtues proudly peer'd, And as a ruin his true worth appear'd! WILMOT WARWICK. SONNET. AMID the burning stars of night I saw T. E. R. ON THE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. FROM THE FRENCH. AND is she gone, that was so bright? A rose too frail, too form'd for love, F. E. de C. R |