The wind flows cool; the scented ground Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth; from off the scene With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature, yet the same, Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. Drink in her influence; low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air, And mid this living light expire. CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. [1787-1854.] MARINER'S HYMN. LAUNCH thy bark, mariner! Breakers are round thee; "What of the night, watchman? No land yet-all's right." For we are the same things our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, The child that a mother attended and We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, loved, The mother that infant's affection who And run the same course that our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. The In and out, Through the motley rout, little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Like a dog in a fair, Cowl and cope and rochet and pall, He perched on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat, In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's Grace, With a satisfied look, as if to say, "We two are the greatest folks here today!" And the priests with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!" Two by two, Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed, and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch Ina fine golden hand-basin made to match. And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap Of the best white diaper fringed with pink, And a cardinal's hat marked in permanent ink. The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white; From his finger he draws His costly turquoise: nobody twigged it, 151 He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; He cursed him living, he cursed him Never was heard such a terrible curse! Nobody seemed one penny the worse! The day was gone, The night came on, The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; When the sacristan saw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! As on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand, His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, That's the thief that has got my Lord The poor little Jackdaw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; Some rascal or other had popped in and And turned his bald head as much as to prigged it!" The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright. He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw! Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The Jackdaw got plenary absol** When those words were heard That poor little bird Yet on the rose's humble bed Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see, really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about With a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; If any one lied, or if any one swore, As much as to say, "Don't do so any While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a He long lived the pride And at last in the odor of sanctity died; His merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a And on newly made Saints and Popes, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, But none shall weep a tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf, Restless, and soon to pass away! My life is like the prints which feet All trace will vanish from the sand; CHARLES WOLFE. [1791-1823.] THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Jem Crow! RICHARD HENRY WILDE. [U. S. A., 1789-1847.] MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the summer rose Is scattered on the ground-to die. Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, Few and short were the prayers we said, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, |