The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone ; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me, Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand! KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN ITLAF, a king of the Saxons, WITLAF, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland 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, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to the Saints and Martyrs And as soon as the horn was empty 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, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more !" GASPAR BECERRA Y his evening fire the artist BY 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 ; Day and night the anxious master Till, discouraged and desponding, And the day's humiliation. Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! Shape the thought that stirs within thee!” Woke, and from the smoking embers. And therefrom he carved an image, O thou sculptor, painter, poet! PEGASUS IN POUND NCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, 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; 'T was the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, . In its gleaming vapor veiled; Not the less he breathed the odors 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, And the curious country people, Thus the day passed, and the evening |