O, say not so! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime. From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme. THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens And on the gravelled pathway I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air; But the faces of the children, They were no longer there. The large Newfoundland house-dog He looked for his little playmates, They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand! KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed, That, whenever they sat at their revels, They might remember the donor, So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf. They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more. And the reader droned from the pulpit, Like the murmur of many bees, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, And Saint Basil's homilies; |