RICHARD H. BARHAM. 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 nobody seems to know what they 're about, But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; The friars are kneeling, 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; 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 The poor little Jackdaw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; Some rascal or other had popped in and And turned his bald head as much as to 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 Jackdaw got plenary absolution! When those words were heard That poor little bird Yet on the rose's humble bed Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see, really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more 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, That good Jackdaw 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 And at last in the odor of sanctity died; 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, Restless, and soon to pass away! 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. So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Jem Crow! RICHARD HENRY WILDE. [U. S. A., 1789-1847.] MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the summer rose 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, O, wear the ring, and guard the flow- These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still. Yet scorn thou not for this the true If there be one that o'er the dead Call his a kindred heart! But for those bonds all perfect made, O, lay thy lovely dreams aside, KINDRED HEARTS. O, ASK not, hope thou not, too much It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which turns A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, JAMES G. PERCIVAL JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and de- | And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 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 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 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 At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 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, Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of While I look upward to thee. It would |