It bends each will, it makes each bosom bow,
Witching the sense away;
Then, like a warrior rising from the fray,
Crying "To arms! to arms!" it swells and soars
In flight triumphant-like a stream that pours
Down in a torrent-all our wills are borne
On in one course, urged by this magic power
That lifts its radiant head, the crowned king of the hour.
Thus the three
Weave the strong spells of their harmony
Over the burning hearts made subject to their sway.
Coals are they from the loftiest shrine
Of intellect; their birthplace is divine.
Sparks are they, brightly born of heaven's own ray.
Their errand should be lofty: to refine
The soul, to purify the heart, to bend
Our every feeling to a holy end;
From stains of earth to make our spirits free,
And thus to consecrate our lives, oh Heaven, to thee!
THE BOBOLINK.-From Our Young Folks.
Merry meadow bobolink!
White as snow and black as ink-
White the ruffle round your throat,
Black your glossy velvet coat;
White your crest, and black your bill,
And your bosom blacker still;
Little piebald, babbling elf,
Caring only for yourself,
Ever joyous, ever singing,
Ever through the lilies winging,
Flitting here and flashing there,
Never quiet any where-
Do you ever stop to think,
Merry meadow bobolink?
What a funny song you sing
While you flutter on the wing!
Rest, then, birdie, on that stake;
Keep your black eyes wide awake;
Don't you laugh, and don't you wink,
While I tell you, bobolink,
In a half a dozen rounds,
How your rattling nonsense sounds,
When your crooked carol crazes
School-boys, birds, and bees, and daisies.
'Bobolink, link-a-tink!' Ho, pretty lass!
Up in the sunny sky, down in the grass.
Good morning, Miss Jenny Wren; sweetly you look,
With feathers so bright from a wash in the brook.
'Tweet-a-lee, tweet-a-lee, link-a-ti-ting !'
Come, Jenny, with me, on the daisies, and swing;
And out of their cups, my darling, we'll drink
Dew-drops and honey-drops, ' tweet bobolink!'”
"Twittering lady-bird, dressed in blue,
Swallow of summer, good morning to you;
'Pe-le-weet, pe-le-weet!' your flight is so fleet,
Your shadow goes dancing over the wheat,
And over the mower, who leans on his scythe
To list to my song, so merry and blithe;
'Tink-a-lum, tink-a-lum!' sprite of the air,
Bobolink wishes your love to share."
"Hallo! Kitty Catbird, what is the matter?
'Click, plash, twang, clatter-ti-clatter !'
Come here on the lilies, and swing and swing,
Bobolink ballads together we'll sing."
'Tweet, tweet! Goldfinch, out in the grove,
Filling the shade with a chirrup of love,
Trilling your song in one little note,
Just hear a tune from a bobolink's throat."
"Tu-ra-lee, tu-ra-lee!' cherries and clover;
Johnny's come home from the war that is over!
Bessie is down in the grass on her nest,
Brooding young bobolinks under her breast;
Lilies bend over the water, I think,
To look at their beauty-never to drink;
So here on the fence I sit and sing,
Proud as a popinjay, ‘link-a-ti-ling!'
'Ho, ho, cleet! cleet!' Some other fine day, My gay little finch, I'll finish my lay.
Good-by for the present. I'd pipe a refrain,
But here comes a school-boy down through the lane.
I know by his step, I know by his wink,
He's a stone in his hand for poor Bobolink.
Good-by, little birds; 'tril-i-link !' good-by;
I've opened my wings, and away I must fly."
So the black-eyed bobolink,
With a mighty knowing wink,
Gives his snowy cap a shake,
Flutters from the leaning stake,
And across the clover-bed,
Turning now and then his head,
Clears the meadow in his track
Ere he folds his wings of black:
And we hear him, as he passes
Gayly o'er the nodding grasses,
Singing "Ting-a-ling-a-link!
I'm a merry bobolink."
THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirk galloped, we galloped all three :
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned to my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Rō'land a whit.
"Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lō'keren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Bōom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Měch'eln (měk ́lin) church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"
At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Rō'land at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze as some bluff river headland its spray;
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick, heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.
By Häs'selt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;
We'll remember at Aix" (āks)-for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Däl'hem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Rō'land to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer-
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due, who brought good news from Ghent (gent).
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell-
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting—
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled—
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair-
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still, through all the song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mein,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;
And now it courted Love-now, raving, called on Hate.
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