* * * * *


SONNET,

ON LEAVING WINCHESTER.


Winton--ere thee I leave in hoary pride,
Thy hallow'd temples, and thine aged towers,
Lifting their heads amid the rural bowers
That grace fair Itchen's ever-rippling tide,
I gaze--and think how many a century
Hath slowly roll'd along, since in their might
The British Chieftain and the Roman Knight
First met in thee in triumph or to die.
But now in peace along thy vale I rove,
Or mark with awe thy venerable pile
Of mitred pomp, and down the lengthen'd aisle
Listen to notes divine, with those I love.
These are the charms that memory must renew,
Till I shall gaze again, with reverence due.

TOSCAR.

* * * * *


EQUANIMITY.