THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.

If he 'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 't was a lost endeavor,
And Piper and dancers were gone forever,
They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
"And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six":
And the better in memory to fix

The place of the Children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street,
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labor.
Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,
And on the Great Church Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbors lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don't understand.

-

especially pipers:

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

39

FAME.

EE, as the prettiest graves will do in time, Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime; Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods Have struggled through its binding osier-rods; Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry, Wanting the brickwork promised by and by; How the minute gray lichens, plate o'er plate, Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date!

NA

SONG.

AY but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught, - speak truth, above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,

IN CIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

And this last fairest tress of all

So fair, see, cre I let it fall!

Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over;
So, why not witness, calmly gazing,

If earth holds aught-speak truth-
Above this tress, and this I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!

above her?

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

You

know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

A mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoléon

Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,"

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect —

4I

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon !

The Marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The Chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The Chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes :

"You're wounded!" 66

Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, Sire!" And, his Chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

M°

ORNING, evening, noon, and night,
Praise God," sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
By which the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell:

But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, "Praise God."

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

43