Part 17 (1/2)

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, And whispered, ”Now I shall be out of sight; So, through the valley, and over the height, In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that bl.u.s.tering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, That make such a bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they!”

So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the light of the morn were seen Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silvery sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-- He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare-- ”Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, ”This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; And the gla.s.s of water they've left for me Shall 'tchick' to tell them I'm drinking!”

_Hannah F. Gould._

FAIRY SONG

Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! oh, weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes!

For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,-- Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red-- Look up, look up! I flutter now On this fresh pomegranate bough.

See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill.

Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Adieu, adieu--I fly--adieu!

I vanish in the heaven's blue,-- Adieu, adieu!

_John Keats._

THE DOVE

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: Oh, what could it grieve for? its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving.

Sweet little red feet! Why should you die-- Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?

You lived alone in the forest tree; Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?

I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

_John Keats._

THE WIND IN A FROLIC

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, ”Now for a frolic! now for a leap!

Now for a madcap, galloping chase!

I'll make a commotion in every place!”

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, Creaking the signs, and scattering down The shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls, Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.

There never was heard a much l.u.s.tier shout As the apples and oranges tumbled about; And urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.