Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern They wrote the story on a column, That in Transylvania there's a tribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, Long time ago in a mighty band, Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, So Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men,-especially pipers, R. Browning. LXVII. TO THE VIOLET. IOLET! sweet violet ! Thine eyes are full of tears; Even yet With the thought of other years? Or with gladness are they full, And longing for those far-off spheres ? Loved-one of my youth thou wast, Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past, Thy little heart, that hath with love All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, Out on it! no foolish pining Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Take hue from that wherefore I long, Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee! J. R. Lowell. LXVIII. THE LIGHT OF STARS. HE night is come, but not too soon ; All silently, the little moon There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? And earnest thoughts within me rise, Suspended in the evening skies, O star of strength! I see thee stand Thou beckonest with thy mailéd hand, · And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquered will, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art That readest this brief psalm, O, fear not in a world like this, H. W. Longfellow. LXIX. TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. ORD when we seek thy throne of grace, O let not earthly things have place To know that 'tis thy bounteous hand This we may humbly know and feel, One thought excite which would reveal Thou knowest well what things we need : That such necessities can plead Their own brief wants with thee. But teach us in the solemn hour Simply to crave of thee the power To feel that thy protecting care To see, in dark temptations' snare Be such our prayers! for all beside B. Barton. LXX. TO THE CUCKOO. BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery ; The same whom in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways |