SONNETS OF THE CAPE.

Oft, when my feet at evening homeward tread The stately cloisters of the oaks along, My fervent soul breaks into grateful song, And I a glad, rapt worshipper am led. God, what a glorious prospect is outspread! Impersoned nature here hath built her shrine: On yon great altar sacrifice divine She offers to her Maker. On the head Of the majestic peak upon the west, Her favoured seat, at eve oft sitteth she, Soothing the busy city into rest, Whilst the sun setting lights the golden sea. Here, in thy fane, bright Presence, I divest My heart of lower thoughts, and bow to heaven and thee.

Dost thou not love, O angel of the night, Above all others this fair southern land? For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand, With rarest stars and constellations bright. Shines not its vestal moon with purer light? Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hue While star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue, Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight? O would that while the old grey mountains sleep There might be silence in the which to find Grand music! But if joyous creatures keep Perpetual chorus, shall my captious mind Object? Creation’s harmonies lie deep, But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined. G. Longmore.