nobody twigged it,

151

He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;

He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying;

He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!

Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise

To no little surprise,
Nobody seemed one penny the worse!

The day was gone,

The night came on,

The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;

When the sacristan saw,

On crumpled claw,

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay,

As on yesterday;

His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;—

His pinions drooped, — he could hardly stand,

His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;

His eye so dim,

So wasted each limb,

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!

That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,

That's the thief that has got my Lord
Cardinal's RING!"

The poor little Jackdaw,
When the monks he saw,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;

prigged it!"

say,

"Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower

He limped on before,

Till they came to the back of the belfry door,

Where the first thing they saw,

Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,

And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression

Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution,

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

When those words were heard

That poor little bird

Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,

really absurd:

He grew sleek and fat;

In addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a

JAMES G. PERCIVAL

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

spairing

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

[U. s. A., 1795 1856.]
MAY.

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;

The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,

Tell of serener hours,—

Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air,
And where his whispering voice in music
falls,

Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes.

And bright reflects the polar star.

155

The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north-wind, heave their
foam,

And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest

snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

O, I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er!

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

[U. s. A., 1796-1828.]

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

May;

The tresses of the woods

With the light dallying of the west-wind play;

And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun.

TO SENECA LAKE.

Ox thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,

seem

As if God poured thee from his hollow hand,

And hung his bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which

seemed to him

Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,

The sound of many waters; and had bade

Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what

are we,

That hear the question of that voice sublime?

O, what are all the notes that ever rung