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THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, “now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!
I'll make a commotion in every place !"
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Creaking the signs, and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls :
There never was heard a much louder shout,
As the apples and oranges trundled about.
Then away to the fields it went blust'ring and humming,
And the cattle all wonder'd whatever was coming.
So on it went, capering and playing its pranks,
Whistling the reeds on the broad river's banks';
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.
'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig, or the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, “Now
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"
Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm,
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm;
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.
But the wind had pass’d on and had met in a lane,
With a school-boy who panted and struggled in vain;
For it toss'd him and twirl'd him, then pass’d, and he stood,
With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.
But away went the wind in his holiday glee,
And soon it was far on the billowy sea.
Then the stately ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro;
But lo! when the night came it sank to rest
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming west,
Laughing to think in its fearful fun
What various mischief it had done.

HOWITT.

THE RED FISHERMAN.

The Abbot arose, and closed his book,

And donned his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth alone, to look

Upon the summer moon:
A starlight sky was o'er his head,

A quiet breeze around;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed :

And the waves a soothing sound :

It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught

But love and calm delight;
Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought

On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that gurgled by,

But he thought not of the reeds; He clasped his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads :
If he looked up to Heaven, 'twas not to invoke

The Spirit that dwelleth there;
If he opened his lips, the words they spoke

Had never the tone of prayer.
A pious Priest might the Abbot seem,

He had swayed the crosier well;
But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream,

The Abbot were loth to tell.

The Abbot was weary as Abbot could be,
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:
When suddenly rose a dismal tone-
Was it a song, or was it a moan?

“Oh, oh! Oh, oh!

Above,-below!
Lightly and brightly they glide and go:
The hungry and keen to the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!"
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left, and he looked to the right.
But what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make his hair uprise,

And the life-blood colder run:
The startled Priest struck both his thighs,

And the Abbey clock struck one !

All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod.
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tattered flag o’er a splitting wreck.
Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat;
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,

With a nose as red as a comet.
“A capital stew,” the Fisherman said,

“With Cinnamon and sherry!”

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There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside;
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
And golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine.
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre !
From top to toe the Abbot shook,
As the Fisherman armed a golden hook;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream, or wakened thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are cracked, and the jaws are dry,
With the thirst which only in death shall die.
Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer ;
But he signed,-he knew not why or how,-
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.

"Oh, oh! Oh, oh!

The cock doth crow;
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.

The Abbot had preached for many years,

With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers

Against Emancipation :
His words had made battalions quake,

Had roused the zeal of martyrs;
Had kept the Court an hour awake,

And the king himself three-quarters : But ever, from that hour, 'tis said,

He stammered and he stuttered,
As if an axe went through his head,

With every word he uttered.
He stuttered o’er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban,

He stuttered, drunk or dry,
And none but he and the Fisherman

Could tell the reason why! W. M. PRAED.

CHARADE.
Uncouth was I of face and form,

But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence and thunder-storm,

By famine and by fight;
Not

a warrior went to the battle-plain,
Not a pilot steered the ship,
That did not look in toil and pain,
For an omen of havoc and hurricane,

To my dripping brow and lip.
Within my Second's dark recess,

In silent pomp I dwelt;
Before the mouth in lowliness

My rude adorer knelt;
And ever the shriek ran loud within,

And ever the red blood ran;
When amid the sin, and smoke, and din,
I sat with changeless, endless grin,

Forging my First for man!
My priests are mould’ring in their grave,

My shrine is silent now;
There is no victim in my cave,

No crown upon my brow;
Nothing is left but dust and clay,

Of all that was divine;
My name and my memory pass away,
But in every week one entire day,

Is called by mortals mine.

PRAED.

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY CHILD.

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)

Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear)

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (See ! see! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little cheerful soul!
What funny feelings through thy bosom roll;
Light art thou as the bird that wings the air,
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)

Thou rogue of mirth and joy!.
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents. (Bless the boy !

There goes myank!)

K

Thou cherub--but of earth!
Fit play-fellow for Fays by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth.
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows;
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble - that's his precious nose !)

Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint,

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove !
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!).

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best ?)

Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table—that's his plan!).
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,

(He's got a knife !)

Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!
Toss the light ball—bestride the stick,
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk.
(He's got the scissors snipping at your gown!)
Balmy, and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove.
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above !)

HOOD.

THE INDIAN'S NOBLE REVENGE.

O’er Ohio the day had passed,

And Autumn's yellow shade
Had wrapt the mountains and the hills,

And lengthened o'er the glade.
The honey-bee had sought her hive,

The bird her sheltered nest;
And in the wide-spread valley's gloom

Both wind and wave had rest.

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