Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings, XII. THE CITY PIGEON. (WILLIS.) STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove! 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; 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 Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. Come, then, ever, when daylight leaves Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee! XIII.-THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; 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, And seems to say at each chamber-door- Never-for ever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood; Never-for ever!" In that mansion used to be His great fires up the chimney roared; Never-for ever!" There groups of merry children played, 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 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, 66 Ah! when shall they all meet again?” Never-for ever!" Never here, for ever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, 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; |