Sonnet. ’Twas at the very birth of ancient time That first the poet’s endless song began ; The deeds, the loves, the joys, the woes of man, He sang, unfettered yet by rhythm or rhyme. And still he sings deeds fearful and sublime, And love and death, and high and lowly things, And peasants, emperors and kings, All souls in clay—through every age and clime The poet sings. Swift may run in his glass His sand ; he careth not ; than death more strong He knows to be that breath from God called song. And evermore, in high melodious verse, The glories of God’s glorious universe He sings to generations as they pass. Julia Kavanagh.