PRELUDE

OFTEN in the peaceful night-time,
When the wood-fire burneth low,
And the ashes from its embers
Fall like flakes of drifting snow;
I sit within my chair, and muse,
And watch the smoke-wreaths roll,
In ever-varying volumes.

From my meerschaum's chestnut bowl;
And the smoke-rings coil around me,
And fantastic fetters form,

Of wrongs, and hates, and sorrows,
And cold friendships, once so warm.

B

Then, in mine ear, with dulcet notes,
Two birds begin to sing;

And the Winter's discord changes

To the harmony of Spring:

And while those twin birds warble

Remembrance and Hope

The blue smoke whirls and eddies,

Like a fairy zoetrope.

Old Odin owned two ravens,
And they croaked within his ear,
Counsels for bloody battles
Which filled the world with fear;
But these sweet birds sing to me,
As the visions come and go,
Of peace, and joy, and plenty,
And oppression beaten low.
They have little care for metre,
They are innocent of rhyme,
But they sing of golden harvest-fields,-
Of the glorious Autumn-time.
They sing of bosky meadow-lands,
Perfumed with mounds of hay;

Of rippling streams, and purple hills,
And gleams of breaking day;
Of many a wild adventure ;

Of an old friend's witty tale;

Of emerald waves that flash, and break,

And drench the bellying sail;

Of dear old homes, and mossy woods,

Of sweet-breath'd lowing kine;

Of orchards ripe with ruddy fruit,

And lanes of eglantine;