And across the clover-bed,
Turning now and then his head,
Clears the meadow in his track
Ere he folds his wings of black:
And we hear him, as he passes
Gayly o'er the nodding grasses,
Singing "Ting-a-ling-a-link!
I'm a merry bobolink."
THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirk galloped, we galloped all three:
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through.
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned to my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Rō'land a whit.
'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lō'keren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Bōom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Měch'eln (měk’lin) church-steeple we heard the half-chime
So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"
At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Rō'land at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze as some bluff river headland its spray;
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick, heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.
By Häs'selt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;
We'll remember at Aix" (āks)—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Däl'hem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Rō'land to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer-
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due, who brought good news from Ghent (gent).
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell;
Thronged around her magic cell—
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting-
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled-
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair—
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still, through all the song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mein,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;
And now it courted Love-now, raving, called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And, from her wild, sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of Peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung—
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best;
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descending maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard ;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime;
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page:
"Tis said-and I believe the tale-
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age-
E'en all at once together found-
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh, bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state--
Confirm the tales her sons relate.
THE CHILD AND THE SUNSHINE.-In Memoriam.
Through the doorway flowed the sunshine
In a flood of molten gold;
Like a cataract of glory,
Down the rifted clouds it rolled.
While a child upon the carpet
Laughing ran to where it lay,
With its little hands outreaching,
Like a dream it fled away.
For a cloud had wandered o'er us,
And the blue of heaven had gone,
And the dark wings of the tempest
Beat the sullen air alone.
Still the child, his hands extended,
Gazed upon the vacant floor,
Waiting, watching for the sunshine
Which would come that day no more.
Happy childhood! watching, waiting,
In your sweet and rosy glow,
You will follow hopes as fleeting
In the path your feet must go.
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