III. Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, “ The day is dreary, He cometh not,” she said ; I would that I were dead !” IV. A sluice with blackened waters slept, The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding.gray. She only said, “My life is dreary, He cometh not,” she said ; I would that I were dead !” And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, “ The night is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; TO She said, “I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !” VI. All day within the dreamy house The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, “ My life is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; VII. The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound The poplar made, did all confound When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, “I am very dreary, He will not come,” she said; O God! that I were dead !” TO CLEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine : If aught of prophecy be mine, Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: Can do away that ancient lie : A gentler death shall Falsehoud die, Wan, wasted Truth, in her utmost need, Until she be an athlete bold, Like that strange angel which of old, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, MADELINE. Thou art not steeped in golden languors, Ever varying Madeline. Sudden glances, sweet and strange, And airy forms of fitting change. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Who may know? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Ever varying Madeline. From one another, Each to each is dearest brother; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thine; Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore, Ever varying Madeline. A subtle, sudden flame, About thee breaks and dances ; O’erflows thy calmer glances, But, looking fixedly the while, In a golden-netted smile; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angerly; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. SONG.- THE OWL. WHEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the whirring sail goes round, Alone and warming his five wits The white owl in the belfry sits. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Alone and warming his five wits SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME. Tay tuwhits are lulled, I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, So took echo with delight, That her voice, untuneful grown, |