We have no title-deeds to house or lands; The spirit-world around this world of sense Our little lives are kept in equipoise These perturbations, this perpetual jar And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud So from the world of spirits there descends IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. In the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, And foolish pomp of this world of ours? The richest and rarest of all dowers? Who shall tell us? No one speaks; By those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter? And do you think to look To find her failings, faults, and errors? Longfellow. III, 13 THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Up and down the dreary camp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedgerows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his grey mustachio, "Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, And the Emperor but a Macho!" Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, "Let no hand the bird molest," 'Tis the wife of some deserter!" Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumour, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor's pleasant humour. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Through the walls a breach had made, Then the army, elsewhere bent, Very curtly, "Leave it standing!" So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o'er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered. THE TWO ANGELS. Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Their attitude and aspect were the same, Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. I saw them pause on their celestial way; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest!" And he who wore the crown of asphodels, I recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, |