[Ill.u.s.tration: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.]

THE EVENING WIND.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow: Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fullness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.

Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, G.o.d's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pa.s.s, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the gra.s.s.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go--but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the sh.o.r.e; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!

Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free!

Sing,--for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his hors.e.m.e.n, all splendid and brave,-- How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and hors.e.m.e.n are sunk in the wave.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!

Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free!

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!

His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword.

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?

For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!

Jehovah hath triumphed,--His people are free!

THOMAS MOORE.

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS.

Up! up! ye dames, ye la.s.ses gay!

To the meadows trip away, 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn.

Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet.

Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong and maintained little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his housekeeping and high renown, They rode post for him to fair London town.

An hundred men, the king did hear say, The Abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.

"How now, father Abbot, I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a far better house than me; And for thy housekeeping and high renown, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."

"My liege," quoth the Abbot, "I would it were known I never spend nothing but what is my own; And I trust your Grace will do me no deere For spending of my own true gotten geere."

[Ill.u.s.tration: KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.]

"Yes, yes, father Abbot, thy fault it is high, And now for the same thou needest must die; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

"And first," quoth the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liegemen so n.o.ble of birth, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.

"Secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride the whole world about; And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think."

"O these are hard questions for my shallow wit, Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weeks' s.p.a.ce, I'll do my endeavor to answer your Grace."

"Now three weeks' s.p.a.ce to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."

Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold, And he met his shepherd a-going to fold: "How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from good King John?"

"Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give, That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

"The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crown of gold so fair on his head, Among all his liegemen so n.o.ble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

"The second to tell him without any doubt, How soon he may ride this whole world about; And at the third question I must not shrink, But tell him there truly what he does think."

"Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yet That a fool he may learn a wise man wit?

Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.

"Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me, I am like your lordship as ever may be; And if you will but lend me your gown There is none shall know us in fair London town."

"Now horses and serving men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope."

"Now welcome, sir Abbot," the king he did say, "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.