Like clustering sunlight fell his yellow tresses,
With purple fillet, scarce confining, bound,
Winding their flow around

A snowy throat that thrilled to their caresses,
And trembling on a breast as lucid white
As sea-foam in the night.

His girdle held his pipes-those pipes that clearly
Through Carian meadows mocked the nightingale
When Hesper lit the vale:

And now the youth was faint, though stepping cheerly,
Supported by his shepherd's crook, he strode
Toward his remote abode.

Mount Latmos lay before him.

Gently gleaming,

A roseate halo from the twilight dim

Hung round its crowd. To him.

The rough ascent was light; for, far off, beaming,
Orion rose-and Sirius, like a shield,

Shone on the azure field.

And from the south-the yellow south, all glowing
With blandest beauty-came a gentle breeze,
Murmuring o'er sleeping seas,

Which, bearing dewy lamps, and lightly flowing
Athwart his brow, cooled his hot brain, and stole
Like nectar to his soul.

Endymion blessed the wind; his bosom swelling
As his parched lips drank in the luscious draught,
His eyes, even while he quaffed,

Brightening; his stagnant blood again upwelling
From his warm heart; and freshened, as with sleep,
He trod the rocky steep.

At last he gained the top, and, crowned with splendor,
The moon, arising from the Latmian sea,

Stepped o'er the heavenly lea,

Flinging her misty glances, meek and tender
As a young virgin's o'er his marbled brow
That glistened with their glow.

Endymion watched her rise, his bosom burning

With princely thoughts, for though a shepherd's son,

He felt that Fame is won

By high aspirings; and a lofty yearning,
From the bright blossoming of his boyish days,
Made his deeds those of praise.

Like hers, his track was tranquil; he had gathered
By slow degrees the glorious, golden lore,
Hallowing his native shore;

And when at silent eve his flock was tethered,
He read the stars, and drank, as from a stream,
Great knowledge from their gleam.

And so he grew a dreamer-one who, panting
For shadowy objects, languished like a bird
That, striving to be heard

Above its fellows, fails, the struggle haunting
Its memory ever, forever the strife pursuing
To its own dark undoing.

And still the moon arose, and now the water
Gleamed like a golden galaxy, star on star;
And down, deep down, afar

In the lazulian lake, Latonia's daughter

Imaged, reclined, breathing forth light, that rose Like mist at evening close.

-Endymion.

THE ROBIN.

The woods are almost bare; the mossy trees
Moan as their mottled leaves are hurried by,
Like sand before the simoom, over the leas,
Yellowing in Autumn's eye.

And very cold the bleak November wind

Shrills from the black Nor'-West, as fitfully blow The gusts, like fancies through a maniac mind Eddying to and fro.

Borne, like those leaves, with piercing cries on high
The Robins come, their wild autumnal wail
From where they pass, dotting the angry sky,
Sounding above the gale.

Down, scattered by the blast, along the glen,
Over the browning plains, the flocks alight,

Crowding the gum in highland or in fen,
Tired with their southern flight.

Away, away, flocking they pass, with snow
And hail and sleet behind them, where the South
Shakes its green locks, and delicate odors flow
As from some fairy mouth.

Silently pass the wintry hours; no song,
No note, save a shrill querulous cry
When the boy sportsman, cat-like, creeps along
The fence, and then-they fly,

Companioned by the cautious lark, from field
To field they journey, till the winter wanes,
When to some wondrous instinct each one yields,
And seeks our northern plains.

March and its storms: no matter how the gale
May whistle round them, on, through snow, and sleet,
And driving hail, they pass, nor ever quail

With tireless wings and feet.

Perched here and there on some tall tree, as breaks
The misty dawn, loud, clarionet-like, rings
Their matin hymn, while Nature also wakes
From her long sleep, and sings.

Gradually the flocks grow less, for, two by two,
The Robins pass away,-each with his mate;
And from the orchard, moist with April dew,
We hear their pretty prate.

And from the apple's snowy blossoms come
Gushes of song, while round and round them crowd
The busy, buzzing bees, and, over them, hum
The humming-birds aloud.

The sparrow from the fence; the oriole
From the now budding sycamore; the wren
From the old hat; the bluebird from his hole
Hard by the haunts of men;

The red-start from the woodside; from the meadow,
The black-cheek, and the martin in the air;
The mournful wood-thrush from the forest shadow
With all of fair and rare.

Among those blossoms of the atmosphere-
The birds-our only sylphids-with one voice,
From mountain side and meadow, far and near,
Like them, at spring rejoice.

May, and in happy pairs the Robins sit

Hatching their young-the female glancing down
From her brown nest. No one will trouble it,
Lest heaven itself should frown

On the rude act; far from the smouldering embers
On memory's hearth flashes the fire of thought,
And each one by its flickering light remembers
How flocks of Robins brought

In the old time, leaves; and sang the while they covered
The innocent babes forsaken. So they rear
Their fledglings undisturbed. Often has hovered
While I have stood anear

A Robin's nest, o'er me that simple story,
Gently and dove-like, and I passed away
Proudly, and feeling it as much a glory
As 'twas in Cæsar's day

To win a triumph, to have left that nest

Untouched; and many and many a school-boy time,
When my sure gun was to my shoulder prest,
The thought of that old rhyme

Came o'er me, and I let the Robin go.-
At last the young are out, and to the woods
All have departed: Summer's sultry glow
Finds them beside the floods.

Then Autumn comes, and fearful of its rage
They flit again. So runs the Robin's life;
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter sees its page
Unstained with care or strife.

HITCHCOCK, EDWARD, an American geologist and chemist, born at Deerfield, Mass., May 24, 1793; died at Amherst, Mass., February 27, 1864. He intended to enter Harvard College, but illness and impaired vision prevented. In 1815 he became Principal of the Academy at Deerfield. Three years later he entered the Yale Theological Seminary, and in 1821 became pastor of a Congregational church at Conway, Mass. In 1825 he was appointed Professor of Chemistry and Natural History at Amherst College, of which, twenty years later, he became President and Professor of Natural Theology and Geology. In 1854 he resigned the presidency, but he retained the professorship during life. While at Conway he made a survey of the western counties of Massachusetts, and in 1830 was appointed State Geologist. Between this year and 1844 he completed the survey of the entire State. In 1836 he was appointed Geologist of New York, and in 1857 of Vermont. He soon resigned the former position, but he retained his position in Vermont until 1861, publishing several annual reports, and a Report on the Geology of Vermont, Descriptive, Theoretical, Economical, and Scenographical (1861). He was a member of the Massachusetts Board of Agriculture, and a commissioner in 1850 to examine the agricultural schools of Europe. Among his works are a Report on the Geology, Mineralogy,