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His eye so dim,

So wasted each limb,

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!

That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,

That's the thief that has got my Lord
Cardinal's RING!"

The poor little Jackdaw,
When the monks he saw,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;

Some rascal or other had popped in and And turned his bald head as much as to

prigged it !"

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!

In holy anger and pious grief

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;

From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;

He cursed him in sleeping, that every night

He should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright.

He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,

He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;

say,

"Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limped on before,

Till they came to the back of the belfry door,

Where the first thing they saw,

Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,

And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression

Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution,

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

When those words were heard That poor little bird

| Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,

Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see,

really absurd:

He grew sleek and fat;

In addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a

mat!

His tail waggled more

Even than before;

But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,

No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.

He hopped now about

With a gait devout;

At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor's
beads.

If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumbered in prayer-time and hap-
pened to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any

more!"

While many remarked, as his manners they saw,

That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"

He long lived the pride
Of that country side,

And at last in the odor of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a
Saint.

And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,

It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow,

But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf,
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its date is brief;

Restless, and soon to pass away!
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree, -
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

CHARLES WOLFE.

[1791-1823.]

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Jem Crow!

RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

[U. s. A., 1789-1847.]

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close

Is scattered on the ground- to die.

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound

him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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O, wear the ring, and guard the flow- These may have language all thine own,

er,

Her heart may not be thine!

"Go, set thy boat before the blast,
Thy breast before the gun,
The haven shall be reached at last,
The battle shall be won;
Or muse upon thy country's laws,
Or strike thy country's lute,
And patriot hands shall sound applause,
And lovely lips be mute:
Go, dig the diamond from the wave,
The treasure from the mine,
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave, -
No woman's heart is thine!

"I charm thee from the agony Which others feel or feign, From anger and from jealousy,

From doubt and from disdain; I bid thee wear the scorn of years Upon the cheek of youth, And curl the lip at passion's tears, And shake the head at truth: While there is bliss in revelry,

Forgetfulness in wine,

Be thou from woman's love as free As woman is from thine!"

To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,
And watched through sickness by thy
bed,

Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,

O, lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven!

KINDRED HEARTS.

O, ASK not, hope thou not, too much
Of sympathy below;

Feware the hearts whence one same touch

Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet-
Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky
Where the rich sunset burns;
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, -
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times, –
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night; The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill,

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JAMES G. PERCIVAL

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and de- | And flashes in the moonlight gleam, spairing

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

[U. s. A., 1795-1856.]

MAY.

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;

The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,

Tell of serener hours,

Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls

From his blue throne of air, And where his whispering voice in music falls,

Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes.

And bright reflects the polar star.

155

The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam,

And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest

snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

O, I could ever sweep the oar,

When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er!

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

[U. S. A., 1796 - 1828.]

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of While I look upward to thee. It would

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