Along the city ways with heart
Assured by holy love,

And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.

'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream,
More hard in Babel's street!
But, if the soulless creatures deem
Their music not unmeet,

For sunless walls,- let us begin,
Who wear immortal wings within!

To me fair memories belong

Of scenes that erst did bless ;
For no regret but present song —
And lasting thankfulness,-
And very soon to break away

Like types, in purer things than they!

I will have hopes that cannot fade,
For flowers the valley yields;
I will have humble thoughts instead
Of silent dewy fields !

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
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
William Wordsworth

CCXXVII

T

TO THE FIRST SWALLOW

IS not one blossom makes a spring,

Nor yet one swallow makes 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
Of sparkling waters, waving meadows,
And countless things that fleet before
My spirit's eye in glimmering shadows;-

Till gazing on thee wheeling near,
And hailing thee with joyful bosom,
I know not whether is more dear,

The summer bird, or vernal blossom.

The blossom brought a promise sweet,
Sweet too is thine, thou glad new-comer!

And I will joy, though pinions fleet
Too aptly tell of joys in summer!

Too aptly? Nay, that word recall:
Deem rather it were cause for weeping,

If pleasant summer days were all,
And never came a day of reaping.

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

THE

HE skylark has perceived his prison door Unclosed; for liberty the captive tries: Puss eagerly hath watched him from the floor, And in her grasp he flutters, pants, and dies.

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,
And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please,
Yet pussy
well could breathe a fireside song

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;
Take thou, dear child, a lesson not unholy,
From one whom nature taught to moralize
Both in his mirth, and in his melancholy.

I will not warn thee not to set thine heart

Too fondly upon perishable things;
In vain the earnest preacher spends his art
Upon that theme: in vain the poet sings.

It is our nature's strong necessity,

And this the soul's unerring instincts tell : Therefore I say, let us love worthily,

Dear child, and then we cannot love too well.

Better it is all losses to deplore

Which dutiful affection can sustain,

Than that the heart should, in its inmost core,
Harden without it, and have lived in vain.

This love which thou hast lavished, and the woe Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress, Are but a vent, an innocent o'erflow,

From the deep springs of female tenderness.

And something I would teach thee from the grief That thus has filled those gentle eyes with tears, The which may be thy sober, sure relief,

When sorrow visits thee in after years.

I ask not whither is the spirit flown

That lit the eye which there in death is sealed; Our Father hath not made that mystery known; Needless the knowledge, therefore not revealed.

But didst thou know in sure and sacred truth,
It had a place assigned in yonder skies,
There, through an endless life of joyous youth,
To warble in the bowers of Paradise ;