The vision vanishes! These walls again Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; The half-hour's sand is run! BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BLACK shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms But the night is fair, And everywhere A warm, soft vapour fills the air, And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see. O, say not so! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions fly, Seeking a warmer clime. From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme. THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens They walked not under the lindens, But shadow, and silence, and sadness, The birds sang in the branches, Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me, Why closer in mine, ah! closer, PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves; And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim; 'Twas the daily call to labour, Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapour veiled; Not the less he breathed the odours That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found; And the wise men in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier, Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming Rich and poor, and young and old, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars; Till at length the bell at midnight To those stars he soared again. GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 'Twas an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill; But, alas! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought ; Till, discouraged and desponding, Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak Shape the thought that stirs within thee!" And the startled artist woke, Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood; And therefrom he carved an image, And he saw that it was good. O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest ; Shape from that thy work of art. KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed,- That, whenever they sat at their revels, They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas, They drank to the soul of Witlaf, And the reader droned from the pulpit, Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! TEGNER'S DRAPA. I HEARD a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky. Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed. And the voice for ever cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair. Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods! Light from his forehead beamed, All things in earth and air |