These the fates of men forecast,

Of better men than live to-day;

If who can read them comes at last,

He will spell in the sculpture, 'Stay!'

THE TITMOUSE.

γου

shall not be overbold

When you deal with arctic cold,

As late I found my lukewarm blood
Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood.
How should I fight? my foeman fine
Has million arms to one of mine:

East, west, for aid I looked in vain,

East, west, north, south, are his domain.

Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home;

The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,
Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,
Curdles the blood to the marble bones,

Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense,

And hems in life with narrowing fence.

Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,

The punctual stars will vigil keep,
Embalmed by purifying cold,

The winds shall sing their dead-march old,

The snow is no ignoble shroud,

The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.

Softly, but this way fate was pointing,

'T was coming fast to such anointing,

When piped a tiny voice hard by,

Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,

Chic-chicadeedee! saucy note

Out of sound heart and merry throat,

As if it said, 'Good day, good sir!
Fine afternoon, old passenger!

Happy to meet you in these places,
Where January brings few faces.'

This poet, though he live apart,

Moved by his hospitable heart,

Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,

To do the honors of his court,

As fits a feathered lord of land;

Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow,

Shows feats of his gymnastic play,

Head downward, clinging to the spray.

Here was this atom in full breath,

Hurling defiance at vast death;

This scrap of valor just for play

Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,

As if to shame my weak behavior;

I greeted loud my little saviour,

'You pet! what dost here? and what for?

In these woods, thy small Labrador,

At this pinch, wee San Salvador!

What fire burns in that little chest
So frolic, stout, and self-possest?
Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine;
Ashes and jet all hues outshine.

Why are not diamonds black and gray,
To ape thy dare-devil array?

And I affirm, the spacious North
Exists to draw thy virtue forth. |

I think no virtue goes with size;

The reason of all cowardice

Is, that men are overgrown,

And, to be valiant, must come down

To the titmouse dimension.'

'Tis good-will makes intelligence,

And I began to catch the sense
Of my bird's song: 'Live out of doors

In the great woods, on prairie floors.