With sudden upward look they listen The stir, without the glow of passion, The gold and silver's dreary clashing Yet still, as on my human hand Their chant is soft as on the nest Beneath the sunny sky, For love that stirred it in their breast Remains undyingly, And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep. And love, that keeps the music, fills All droppings from the skies, All flowings from the wave, and wind, Remembered in their chant I find. So teach ye me the wisest part, Along the city ways with heart And vocal with such songs as own 'T was hard to sing by Babel's stream, For sunless walls,— let us begin, To me fair memories belong Of scenes that erst did bless ; For no regret but present song - And very soon to break away Like types, in purer things than they ! I will have hopes that cannot fade, My spirit and my God shall be My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea. E. B. Browning CCXXVI E TO A SKYLARK THEREAL minstrel, pilgrim of the sky, Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; CCXXVII TO THE FIRST SWALLOW IS not one blossom makes a spring, 'T'not one bowall whakes a summer; But a sweet promise both may bring, And thine is sweet, thou glad new comer ! Thy twittering voice, thy pinions light, That glance, and glide with fleetest motion, Unwearied, though but yesternight They buoyed thee o'er the wide-spread ocean, A welcome promise bring once more Till gazing on thee wheeling near, The blossom brought a promise sweet, And I will joy, though pinions fleet Too aptly? Nay, that word recall: If pleasant summer days were all, Or mark the swift-winged foreigner Again; and check each thought of sadness: All here may fade; it grieves not her : She knows another land of gladness. T. Davis CCXXVIII THE LOSS OF THE FAVORITE 'HE skylark has perceived his prison door Puss eagerly hath watched him from the floor, Lucy's own puss, and Lucy's own dear bird, Her fostered favorites both for many a day, That which the tender-hearted girl preferred, She, in her fondness, knew not sooth to say. For if the skylark's pipe were shrill and strong, As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees. Both knew her voice, and each alike would seek Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain; How faintly then may words her sorrow speak, When by the one she sees the other slain. Come, Lucy, let me dry those tearful eyes; |