XIII. Thee, in thy fresh and leafy haunt, Thy drink the dew, thy food the air; XIV. Nor Pain, nor Evil canst thou see, Or mingles with thy melody, From want thy jocund heart is free, THE BLACKBIRD. I. OW sweet the harmonies of Afternoon! How The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and Summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly-while the Blackbird sings. II. How soft the lovelight of the West reposes III. The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest; IV. And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, V. Before her home, in her accustomed seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence—while the Blackbird sings. VI. Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, VII. The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manor-house, VIII. The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments-and my Lady streams With her gay court across the garden green; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; And one calls for a little page; he strings Her lute beside her-while the Blackbird sings. IX. A little while-and lo! the charm is heard, A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear—while the Blackbird sings. X. The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, And dizzy things of Eve begin to float The ancient clock from out the valley swings; XI. Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, XII. On the high wold the last look of the sun Only a hammer on an anvil rings; The Day is dying-still the Blackbird sings. XIII. Now the good Vicar passes from his gate, XIV. Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him--who with lifted hands, XV. Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, He smiles as though he said, "Thy will be done :" His eyes, they see not those illuminings ; His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. Charles Turner. THE LION'S SKELETON. OW long, O lion, hast thou fleshless lain? How What rapt thy fierce and thirsty eyes away? First came the vulture: worms, heat, wind, and rain Ensued, and ardours of the tropic day. I know not-if they spared it thee-how long |