SONNET.

THE Past, - the realm of clinging memory,

Which reaches, like the landscape's varied sweep,

Before the traveller, as on mountain steep

He pauses in his climbing wearily.

The Present, - filled with glistening beams of light,

Though clouds of sorrow oft its rays conceal

For one short hour, then, vanishing, reveal

A glimpse, perchance, of Future blest and bright.

Vast, untried Future! - none hath turned the page

Of thy closed volume, yet its fate to read.

These are our life, - these close-united three, -

A Past, sprung from the depths of boundless age;

A Present, formed of varying paths which lead

To Future, merged in grand eternity!

I. MCG. F.