THE OPEN WINDOW.
THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.

They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;

But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familar tone;

But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!

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 schoolboys 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 proclaim

ing

There was an estray to sell. And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old,

Came in haste to see this wondrous Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapours cold and dim; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him.

Patiently and still expectant,

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
Sounded from its dark abode,
And, from out a neighbouring farm-
yard,

Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.
Then, with nostrils wide distended,
Breaking from his iron chain,
And unfolding far his pinions,

To those stars he soared again. On the morrow, when the village Woke to all its toil and care, Lo! the strange steed had departed, And they knew not when nor where.

But they found, upon the greensward, Where his struggling hoofs had trod,

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its

waters,

While it soothes them with its sound.

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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,

And drank from the golden bowl,

The legend of good St. Guthlac,
And St. Basil's homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthiac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,

And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered,

But the Abbot was stark and dead.

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 We must drink to one Saint more!"

Hoeder, the blind old God,
Whose feet are shod with silence,
Pierced through that gentle breast
With his sharp spear, by fraud
Made of the mistletoe,
The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship,
With horse and harness,
As on a funeral pyre.
Odin placed

A ring upon his finger,
And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship!
It floated far away
Over the misty sea,

Till like the sun it seemed,
Sinking beneath the waves.
Balder returned no more!
So perish the old Gods!
But out of the sea of Time
Rises a new land of song,
Fairer than the old.
Over its meadows green

Walk the young bards and sing.

Build it again,

O ye bards,

Fairer than before!

Ye fathers of the new race,
Feed upon morning dew,
Sing the new Song of Love!

The law of force is dead!
The law of love prevails!
Thor, the thunderer,
Shall rule the earth no more,
No more, with threats,
Challenge the meek Christ.
Sing no more,

O ye bards of the North,
Of Vikings and of Jarls!
Of the days of Eld
Preserve the freedom only,
Not the deeds of blood.

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.

The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by
streams,

Playing the music of our dreams.
The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and
loud

The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A
gray old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.