Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn !

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn !

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

KILLED AT THE FORD

HE is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose plea-
sant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap,

We lifted him up to his saddle again,
And through the mire and the mist and
the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp,
And laid him as if asleep on his bed;
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's
lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to

crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

GIOTTO'S TOWER

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint

On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists

paint

Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incomplete!

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,

The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,

A vision, a delight, and a desire,

ENVOYÉ À M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOËL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS DIVERS

The basket of wine which Mr. Longfellow sent to his friend with these verses was accompanied by the following note: "A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all the house of Agassiz! I send also six good wishes in the shape of bottles. Or is it wine? It is both; good wine and good wishes and kind memories of you on this Christmas Eve."

A translation of the verses was printed by Mr. John E. Norcross of Philadelphia in a brochure, 1867. L'Académie en respect, Nonobstant l'incorrection A la faveur du sujet,

Ture-lure,

N'y fera point de rature;
Noël ! ture-lure-lure.

GUI BARÔZAL.

QUAND les astres de Noël
Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel,
Six gaillards, et chacun ivre,
Chantaient gaîment dans le givre,
"Bons amis,
Allons donc chez Agassiz!"

Ces illustres Pèlerins
D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins,
Se donnant des airs de prêtre,
A l'envi se vantaient d'être.
"Bons amis
De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"

Eil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,
Sans reproche et sans pudeur,
Dans son patois de Bourgogne,
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,
"Bons amis,

J'ai dansé chez Agassiz!"

Verzenay le Champenois,

Bon Français, point New-Yorquois,
Mais des environs d'Avize,
Fredonne à mainte reprise,
"Bons amis,

J'ai chanté chez Agassiz!"