heat

show,

Like the glossy head of a kite or crow,
Until he was made to understand
They wanted the bird alive, not dead;
Then he followed him whithersoever he
fled,

Through forest and field, and hunted him down,

And brought him prisoner into the town.

Alas! it was a rueful sight,
To see this melancholy knight
In such a dismal and hapless case;
His hat deformed by stain and dent,
His plumage broken, his doublet rent,
His beard and flowing locks forlorn,
Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn,
His boots with dust and mire besprent:
But dignified in his disgrace,
And wearing an unblushing face.
And thus before the magistrate
He stood to hear the doom of fate.

In vain he strove with wonted oase
To modify and extenuate

His evil deeds in church and state,
For gone was now his power to please;
And his pompous words had no more
weight

Than feathers flying in the breeze.

With suavity equal to his own
The governor lent a patient ear
In which he endeavored to make clear
To the speech evasive and highflown,
That colonial laws were too severe
When applied to a gallant cavalier,
A gentleman born, and so well known,
And accustomed to move in a higher
sphere.

All this the Puritan governor heard,
And deigned in answer never a word;
But in summary manner shipped away,
In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay,
This splendid and famous cavalier,
With his Rupert hat and his popery,
To Merry England over the sea,
As being unmeet to inhabit here.

Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher,

Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, The first who furnished this barren land

With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand.

FINALE.

THESE are the tales those merry guests
Told to each other, well or ill;
Like summer birds that lift their crests
Above the borders of their nests
And twitter, and again are still.
These are the tales, or new or old,
In idle moments idly told;
Flowers of the field with petals thin,
Lilies that neither toil nor spin,
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse
Hung in the parlor of the inn
Beneath the sign of the Red Horse.

And still, reluctant to retire,
The friends sat talking by the fire
And watched the smouldering embers

burn

To ashes, and flash up again
Into a momentary glow,
Lingering like them when forced to go,
And going when they would remain ;
For on the morrow they must turn
Their faces homeward, and the pain
Of parting touched with its unrest
A tender nerve in every breast.

But sleep at last the victory won;
They must be stirring with the sun,
And drowsily good night they said,
And went still gossiping to bed,
And left the parlor wrapped in gloom.
The only live thing in the room
Was the old clock, that in its pace
Kept time with the revolving spheres
And constellations in their flight,
And struck with its uplifted mace

Where are they now? What lands and skies

Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? What hope deludes,, what promise cheers,

What pleasant voices fill their ears?
Two are beyond the salt sea waves,
And three already in their graves.
Perchance the living still may look
Into the pages of this book,
And see the days of long ago
Floating and fleeting to and fro,
As in the well-remembered brook
They saw the inverted landscape gleam,
And their own faces like a dream
Look up upon them from below.

I LAY upon the headland-height, and listened

To the incessant sobbing of the sea
In caverns under me,

And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened,

Thou dost not toil nor spin,

Melted away in mist.

And tilts against the field,

Faded away, and the disconsolate shore Stood lonely as before;

tion

Those pages of the mystic book which hold

The story still untold,

But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,

Until "The End" I read.

THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD.

BURN, O evening hearth, and waken
Pleasant visions, as of old!
Though the house by winds be shaken,
Safe I keep this room of gold!

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy
Builds her castles in the air,
Luring me by necromancy
Up the never-ending stair!

But, instead, she builds me bridges
Over many a dark ravine,
Where beneath the gusty ridges

Cataracts dash and roar unseen.

And I cross them, little heeding
Blast of wind or torrent's roar,
As I follow the receding

Footsteps that have gone before.

Naught avails the imploring gesture,

Naught avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture, 'Tis the gray robe of the rain.

Baffled I return, and, leaning

O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud.

And the sounds of life ascending

Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near.

Well I know what there lies hidden, Every tower and town and farm, And again the land forbidden

Reassumes its vanished charm.

Well I know the secret places,

And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces,

In what hearts are thoughts of me.

pen,

And left the tale half told.

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic

I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song

manse,

The historic river flowed:

I was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road.

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

strange;

Their voices I could hear,

to change

Their meaning to my ear.

for the one face I looked for was not

there,

The one low voice was mute; Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit.

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream

Dimly my thought defines;
I only see - a dream within a dream
The hill-top hearsed with pines.

I only hear above his place of rest
Their tender undertone,

The infinite longings of a troubled breast,
The voice so like his own.

There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold,

And with the sound

The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men !