Sonnet: - XXII.

Dark, dismal day—the first of many such! The wind is sighing through the plaintive trees, In fitful gusts of a half-frenzied woe; Affrighted clouds the hand might almost touch, Their black wings bend so mournfully and low, Sweep through the skies like night-winds o'er the seas. There is no chirp of bird through all the grove, Save that of the young fledgeling rudely flung From its warm nest; and like the clouds above My soul is dark, and restless as the breeze That leaps and dances over Couchiching. Soon will the last duett be sweetly sung; But through the years to come our hearts will ring With memories, as dear as time and love can bring.