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ITYLUS.

O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,
The heart's division divideth us.

Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus,
The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.

O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,
I pray thee sing not a little space.

Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?
The woven web that was plain to follow,
The small slain body, the flower-like face,
Can I remember if thou forget?

O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!

The hands that cling and the feet that follow,
The voice of the child's blood crying yet
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.

A. C. Swinburne.

147

148

SUMMER-TIME.

SUMMER-TIME.

WHAT is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries the earth, if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
And whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, grasping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over woodlands and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace.
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest-
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

WINTER-TIME.

Now the heart is so full that a drop o'erfills it,
We are happy now, because God so wills it.
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back

For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowingAnd hark! how clear bold chanticleer,

Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

James Russell Lowell.

WINTER-TIME.

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain-peak,
From the snow five thousand summers old;

On open wold and hill-top bleak

It had gathered all the cold,

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;
It carried a shiver everywhere

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams;

149

150

WINTER-TIME.

Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars;
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt
Down through a frost-leaved forest crypt,
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees
Bending to counterfeit a breeze;
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew;
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;
Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear

For the gladness of Heaven to shine through; and here
He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops

And hung them thickly with diamond drops
Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun,
And made a star of every one.

No mortal builder's most rare device
Could match this winter palace of ice;

'Twas as if ev'ry image that mirrored lay
In his depths serene through the summer day,
Each flitting shadow of earth and sky,
Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry
By the elfin builders of the frost.

J. R. Lowell.

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

151

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

OUTLANDERS, whence come ye last?

The snow in the street and the wind on the door. Through what green seas and great have ye past? Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away, O masters mine,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door. We come to bear you goodly wine,

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away we come to you,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door. To tell of great tidings strange and true, Ministrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

News, news of the Trinity,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door. And Mary and Joseph from over the sea! Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

For as we wandered far and wide,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door. What hap do ye deem there should us betide! Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

Under a bent when the night was deep,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door. There lay three shepherds tending their sheep. Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

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