LII THE BELEAGUERED CITY White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, But when the old cathedral bell Down the broad valley fast and far, Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. LIII JAFFAR H. W. Longfellow Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer. Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad might say, All but the brave Mondeer.-He, proud to show On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. 'Bring me this man,' the caliph cried : the man he; 'From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver'd me ; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.' H 'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took; and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaim'd, 'This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar.' Leigh Hunt LIV COLIN AND LUCY Three times, all in the dead of night, And shrieking at the window thrice, Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 'I hear a voice you cannot hear, By a false heart and broken vows, Was I to blame, because his bride 'Ah, Colin, give not her thy vows, Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, Impatient, both prepare! But know, fond maid, and know, false man, 'Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, This bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay, I, in my winding-sheet.' She spoke, she died, her corse was borne He in his wedding trim so gay, She in her winding-sheet. Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts? The damps of death bedew'd his brow, T. Tickell LV THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY Art thou the bird whom man loves best, The bird that comes about our doors And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other The darling of children and men? H 2 747578 Could father Adam open his eyes, Under the branches of the tree : Can this be the bird to man so good, That after their bewildering, Cover'd with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood? What ail'd thee, robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky, From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer, thou, of our in-door sadness, LVI W. Wordsworth THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD Now ponder well, you parents dear, |