Folk-Songs.

GOD sent his singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth,

THE SINGERS.

That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre ;

Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,

And stirred, with accents deep and loud,
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.

But the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, but in degree;

I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

"These are the three great chords of might;

And he whose ear is tuned aright

Will hear no discord in the three,

But the most perfect harmony."

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,

PHILOMELA.

HARK! ah, the Nightingale!

The tawny-throated!

Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark-what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,

Still, after many years, in distant lands,

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain

That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain!
Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn,
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold,

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse,

With hot cheeks and seared eyes,

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more essay

Thy flight; and feel come over thee,

Poor fugitive, the feathery change,

Once more; and once more make resound,