the gaze,

Coming and going, as a shadow plays When the wind, with rise and fall, Sways the elm-shade on the wall.

This with a smile the maiden saw, Saw it come and then withdraw; And oft they knew not why she smiled,

Nor saw the vision strange and wild Which she beheld with looks of joy,The frolic-hearted truant boy.

Thus oft beside a delirious child The watchers see upon its face Expressions which they cannot trace, And where its eyes so fondly turn They look, but nothing can discern, Still conscious of a presence near Of what they cannot see or hear.

In the grove the whippoorwill
Forgot his story, and sat still:
But all who tell a tale of pain
Know well the place to begin again.

Music on a waveless stream
Where the stars and moonshine gleam,
While the light oar noiseless dips,
And then, lifting, brightly drips,
As if hung with pearl-strings rare,
Caught from the water-spirits' hair;
Then the music-freighted boat
Seems some fairy ark afloat,
Filled with groups of airy elves
Playing to delight themselves,
Blowing marvellous instruments,
With a thrill of joy intense,
Until the sounds that ring afar
Seem blown from many a clarion star;
Or as the thin rays of the moon,

By some marvellous alchemy,
Were changed from light to melody,
One-half lustre, one-half tune;
Or as the veil of the other world
Were partly lifted, partly furled,

And underneath the soft notes born In the eternal fields of morn Were wafted, on the wings of bliss, Out of that realm into this.

placed

Around his daughter's slender waist,
As up the lawn they swiftly paced,
Called loudly to his men in haste
To make the outer gates secure,
To bar and lock the stable door,
Then loose the iron kennel-check
From off the savage mastiff's neck.

But scarce their feet had pressed the floor

Beside the open entrance-door,
When still he heard the revelling din
Of some who drank and laughed
within.

Then cried the host, in gayer strain, "It seems some lingering guests remain,

To praise those old Burgundian casks Or compliment the Rhenish flasks.

This suits me well. I'll bid them stay
And revel till the break of day;
For where such manly mirth is made
No rebel band will dare invade."

He paced the hall like a generous host, And laughed to hear the loud uproar,

Then cried, as he swung the festive door,

"Fill up, my friends, to a loyal toast! Fill high!"-but, at the sight revealed,

Some sudden paces backward reeled, Like a stunned warrior on the field, And stood a moment dumb and lost, Like one who meets a midnight ghost. Then stammered, "If my sight be true,

This is an honor scarcely due.
To what may I ascribe, strange sirs,
The presence of such visitors?"

"To what," cried one, with the voice of a gale

That laughs through an Alleghanian pine,

"But to drink your health in good

red wine

Till its hue returns to your cheek so pale?"

And then the dozen sturdy men Laughed, and brimmed their cups again,

And drained them to the hearty toast Of Berkley Manor and its host.

'Twas hard to see his dear old wines, The heart's blood of the noblest vines, Poured by a rough and sunburnt hand To nourish the souls of a rebel band. He heard the very wine's heart throb As it flowed from the flask with a sigh and a sob;

The bubbles that wept around each rim

Looked with imploring eyes at him.

Then swelled that gusty voice once

I cannot guess what men they be:

I only know they drank my wine:Would they might hang, a scarecrow line,

On the next lightning-blasted tree!" Hulda replied, "Unless I err,

I heard a voice I have heard before: Each tone of his is a clinging burr, That from the memory will not stir.— Though it is full ten years, or more. Since last I heard his laughter-roar, Or his great stride along the floor, I would know, though twice as long it were,

Ringbolt, the wilful wagoner."

Then, in silence and in gloom,
The proud man passed to his private

room,

And paced the floor, in spirit vexed,
With dusky fancies sore perplexed,—
Thought of his daughter, thought of
his pride,

And of a hundred things beside.
But soon o'er his soul of turbulence
The quiet stole, and soothed the sense,
As silence with its hand at last
Smooths the pool where the storm has
passed.

But hark!—was it the rising wind Swinging the boughs on the windowblind?

Or chimney-swallows come anew,

And talking in the sooty cavern, Conversing as room-mate travellers do Ere they go to sleep in a wayside tavern?

Or was it some burglarious crew, With many a stealthy gouge and scratch,

Working their way from screw to

At every step he seemed to hear
The noises more distinct and near;
Now at the pistol-pans he tapped,
And cocked the flints,-how loud they
snapped!-

Then followed the sounds with breathless care,

Here encountered a table, and there a chair,

Till it seemed as if to retard his pace. Each article had changed its place.

The wave of every curtain's fold Now made his trembling heart less bold,

Lest, issuing from the midnight air, His phantom bride should meet him there,

With wild mysterious eyes to peer
Into his shuddering soul of fear.

He gazed with anger mixed with joy,
As he beheld the marvellous boy,-
Anger at the fears unbounded,
Joy that they had proved unfounded:
One long relieving breath he drew,
Then gazed with silent, steadfast view.

Close to the harp the urchin prest
And clasped it fondly to his breast,
Then softly o'er his fingers stirred,
To wake the tones he late had heard;
Now stopped among the bass per-
plexed,

Then tried the tinkling treble next;
Now over all his wild hands sped,
And then, despairing, he shook his

head;

His large eyes, wondering, seemed to say

The music had gone with the maid away.

Then he arose, with puzzled air,
And gazed upon the pictures there,
Marvelling much that such things

were,

All so alive, and yet no stir:
And now he climbed into the niche
Where stood the suit of armor rich,
With golden tracery embossed,
And gazed on it in wonder lost,
From head to foot, with searching scan,
Surveyed the marvellous iron man;
Then, with a hand that nothing feared,
The visor carefully upreared,—
While Berkley saw, with a shudder
of dread,

The horrid yawn of that iron head,—
Looked calmly in, and nothing saw,
Then closed it, having felt no awe.

Methinks to the angel of Peace

'twould be

A charmed and sacred sight to see
A child by an offcast coat of war,
Who dreamed not what 'twas fash-
ioned for.

Heaven send the time when bloody
Mars

Shall only be known among the stars, And his armor, with its thousand scars,

In a niche, as a curious thing, be bound, And peered into, and nothing found! Oh, would some sweet bird of the South 11

Might build in every cannon's mouth, Till the only sound from its rusty

throat

Should be the wren's or the blue

bird's note,

That doves might find a safe resort In the embrasures of every fort!

Again to the harp the urchin passed, And sat him down, subdued and tame,

And seeming overweighed at last,

He leaned against the golden frame; His black hair drooped along the strings,

Like a fainting night-bird's wings; A long sigh heaved his tired breast, And slumber soothed him into rest.