SONNETS.

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BY MRS. ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS.

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I.—THE OASIS.

Think not that I am hapless, ye who read

The pensive numbers of my fervent lyre:

That in the heart is sown some upas-seed,

Is not to prove all healthful germs expire;

That in a garden are some withered bowers,

Crisped buds and yellow leaves bestrew the ground,

Is not to prove it hath nor herbs nor flowers.

Think not because I’ve stood on every round

Of Fortune’s ladder, that no oasis

Amid the desert of my heart upglows

Above the sands and sallow cypresses,

Cheering the weary pilgrim as he goes;

Not all the fires that rend volcanic wombs

Can kill this one green spot that ’mid my heart-waste blooms.

II.—JOYS OF INTELLECTUAL EMPLOYMENT.

’Tis true, I’m poor in what the world calls bliss;

’Tis true, I have known many wounds of pride,

With which a weaker nature might have died.

’Tis true, I’ve passed the fearful Charybdis,

Yet ’mid the maelstrom thrilled with happiness.

We should not murmur ’gainst an earthly trial—

It throws a stronger sunlight on Life’s dial,

Awakes the spirit in its chrysalis,

And plumes it i’ to the broad, bright heavens to soar.

And oh! if I could sing the bliss I’ve known,

While sitting in this study-room alone,

Listing the soul waves wash the eternal shore—

If I could ring it out in one loud song,

’Twould shake the throne of Grief and banish Wrong.