PAN IN WALL STREET. And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her,Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands But Music waves eternal wands, Enchantress of the souls of mortals! So thought I, but among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton, And scoffed the vagrant demigod, And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting, I mused upon the cry, "Great Pan is dead!"—and all the people Went on their ways: - and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. E. C. STEDMAN. Auspex. MY heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it; And when the last shall go, The dreary days, to fill it, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow. Had they been swallows only, That skyward longs and sings, – The impatience of their wings! A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover; But it will not be long Before their wild confusion Fall wavering down to cover The poet and his song. J. R. LOWELL. BIRDS. BIRDS Birds.' are singing round my window, So with thoughts my brain is peopled, R. H. STODDARD. 1 From "The Poems of R. H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Coujours Amour. PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, Soft approaches, sly retreats, "Oh!" the rosy lips reply, Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face, Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? |