While the wild wind went moaning everywhere,

Lamenting the dead children of the air!

But the next Spring a stranger sight

was seen,

A sight that never yet by bard was sung,

As great a wonder as it would have been

If some dumb animal had found a tongue!

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,

All full of singing birds, came down the street,

Filling the air with music wild and

sweet.

From all the country round these birds were brought,

By order of the town, with anxious quest, And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought

In woods and fields the places they loved best, Singing loud canticles, which many thought

Were satires to the authorities addressed,

While others, listening in green lanes, averred

Such lovely music never had been heard!

Bu blither still and louder carolled they

Upon the morrow, for they seemed to knɔw

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, And everywhere, around, above, below,

When the Preceptor bcre his bride away,

Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow,

And a new heaven bent over a new earth

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth.

FINALE.

THE hour was late; the fire burned iow,

The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep,

And near the story's end a deep
Sonorous sound at times was heard,
As when the distant bagpipes blow.
At this all laughed; the Landlord
stirred,

As one awaking from a swound,
And, gazing anxiously around,
Protested that he had not slept,
But only shut his eyes, and kept
His ears attentive to each word.

Then all arose, and said "Good
Night."

Alone remained the drowsy Squire
To rake the embers of the fire,
And quench the waning parlor light;
While from the windows, here anu
there,

moment

The scattered lamps a
gleamed,
And the illumined hostel seemed
The constellation of the Bear,
Downward, athwart the misty air
Sinking and setting toward the su
Far off the village c ock struck one,

THE CHILDPEN'S HOUR.

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

That is known as the Children's
Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse- Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall Such an old moustache as I am

Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

ENCELADUS.

UNDER Mount Etna he lies,

It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies

Are hot with his fiery breath.

The crags are piled on his breast,

The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half sup pressed,

Are heard, and he is not dead.

And the nations far away

Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, "To-morrow, perhaps to-day,

Enceladus will arise!"

And the oid gods, the austere

Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear

SNOW-FLAKES.

OUT of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

In the white countenance confes-
sion,

The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.

A DAY OF SUNSHINE.

O GIFT of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play;

Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every

vein,

I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high The splendid scenery of the sky,

Where through a sapphire sea the

sun

Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the
West,

Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.
Blow, winds! and waft through all
the rooms

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! Blow, winds and bend within my reach

The fiery blossoms of the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!

O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.

LABOR with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,

At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer,

Like a mendicant it waits;

Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday

Each to-day is heavier made;

Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear Heavy as the weight of dreams,

Pressing on us everywhere.

And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,

On their shoulders held the sky.

WEARINESS.

O LITTLE feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears,

Must ache and bleed beneath your
load;

I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask ; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned,

With passions into ashes turned

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light

Direct from heaven, their source
divine;

Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears,

How lurid looks this soul of mine!