And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,

Deposits it straight

By the side of his plate,

While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;

Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,

That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,

And nobody seems to know what they 're about,

But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;

The friars are kneeling,
And hunting and feeling

The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.

The Cardinal drew

Off each plum-colored shoe,

And left his red stockings exposed to the view;

He peeps, and he feels

In the toes and the heels. They turn up the dishes, - they turn up the plates,

They take up the poker and poke out the grates,

They turn up the rugs,

They examine the mugs;
But, no! -no such thing, —

They can't find THE RING!

And the Abbot declared that "when

nobody twigged it,

151

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 resti-
tution,

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,

mat!

His tail waggled more
Even than before;

But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,

No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.

He hopped now about

With a gait devout;

At matins, at vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.

If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumbered in prayer-time and hap-
pened to snore,

That good Jackdaw
Would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"

While many remarked, as his manners they saw,

That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"

He long lived the pride
Of that country side,

And at last in the odor of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.

And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,

It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow,

-

But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf,
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its date is brief;

Restless, and soon to pass away!
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

CHARLES WOLFE.

[1791-1823.]

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

Jem Crow!

RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

[U. S. A., 1789-1847.]

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close

Is scattered on the ground- to die.

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound

him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,
And watched through sickness by thy
bed,

Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,

O, lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven!

KINDRED HEARTS.

O, ASK not, hope thou not, too much
Of sympathy below;
Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet-
Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky
Where the rich sunset burns;
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring,
A dream, to his unknown.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

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,