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Gliding apace, with shadows in their train,
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed
Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.

The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings,
Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed
With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
In the low vale or on steep mountain side;
And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard,-
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself,
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god.

XII. THE CITY PIGEON.

(WILLIS.)

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touched my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat;
And my joy is high

To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear

This noise of people, this sultry air?

Thou alone of the feathered race

Dost look unscared on the human face;

Thou alone, with a wing to flee,

Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And the "gentle dove"

Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!

Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!

Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild In the prisoned thoughts of the city child; And thy glossy wings

Are its brightest image of moving things.

It is no light chance. Thou art set apart
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair,
That else were sealed in this crowded air;
I sometimes dream

Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.

Come, then, ever, when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble eaves,
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,
And murmur thy low sweet music out!
I hear and see

Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee!

XIII.-THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
(LONGFELLOW.)

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall,
An ancient time-piece says to all—
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

Half way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

By day its voice is low and light;

But, in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber-door-
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood;
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe-
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning time-piece never ceased-
For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient time-piece told"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

All are scattered now and fled-
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?”
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient time-piece makes reply-
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

Never here, for ever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear;
For ever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Saith this incessantly-

"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

XIV. THE SONG OF THE COSSACK TO HIS HORSE. This "Song of the Cossack" was translated by "Father Prout" (Rev. Francis Mahony) from the French of Beranger.

COME, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on!

The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on the Don.

Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 'tis the hour to hie thee forth,

And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the trumpets of the North!

Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy saddle-tree; But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee.

Then fiercely neigh, my charger grey!-thy chest is proud and ample!

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

Europe is weak-she hath grown old-her bulwarks are laid low;

She is loath to hear the blast of war-she shrinketh from a foe!

Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly haunts of joyIn the pillared porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy !

Proud as when first thou slak'dst thy thirst in the flow of conquered Seine,

Aye, shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood-red flanks again.

Then fiercely neigh, my gallant grey!-thy chest is strong and ample!

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by their own vassal

crew;

And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded

too;

And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to keep their bondsmen down,

And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant's crown!

The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the cross

Shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft THAT SCEPTRE toss!

Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey!-thy chest is broad and ample !

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

In a night of storm I have seen a form!-and the figure was a GIANT,

And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was all defiant;

Kingly his crest-and towards the West with his battle-axe he pointed;

And the "form" I saw was ATTILA of this earth the scourge anointed.

From the Cossacks' camp let the horseman's tramp the coming crash announce;

Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on the carrion field to pounce;

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