"And now the land," said Othere, And I followed the curving shore Into a nameless sea. "And there we hunted the walrus, And like the lightning's flame "There were six of us all together, In two days and no more We killed of them threescore, And dragged them to the strand!" Here Alfred the Truth-Teller With doubt and strange surmise And Othere, the old sea-captain, And to the King of the Saxons, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, "Behold this walrus-tooth!" DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me." It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone." And hurried landward far away, It said unto the forest, "Shout! It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing." And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn." It shouted through the belfry-tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. May 28, 1857. Ir was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May, And Nature, the old nurse, took "Come, wander with me," she said, And he wandered away and away And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times he hears in his dreams And the mother at home says, "Hark! It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" CHILDREN. COME to me, 0 For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows In And the brooks of morning run. your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn, And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? Longfellow. III. 15 What the leaves are to the forest, That to the world are children; Come to me, 0 ye children! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, Ye are better than all the ballads For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. |