THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.

The first slight swerving of the heart,
That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,

Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake

Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships,

The flames would leap, and then expire.

And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main ;
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed

And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames,
The ocean, roaring up the beach,
The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
All mingled vaguely in our speech;

Until they made themselves a part

Of fancies floating through the brain : The long-lost ventures of the heart,

That send no answers back again.

Ask me no

more:

The moon

draw the sit a

may

The cloud may stoop from heaven & take the shape. with fold to fold, of mountain or of cape, But, I too fond, when have I andwird thee?

hit me no more,

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Sears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart & gather to the eyes

In looking And thinking

on the happy Autumn fields,

ASK ME NO MORE.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
They were indeed too much akin :

The drift-wood fire without that burned,

The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

ASK ME NO MORE.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But, O too fond! when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye;
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed;
I strove against the stream, and all in vain.
Let the great river take me to the main.
No more, dear love-for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

ON the cross-beain under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.

I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,

Chime of the hour, or funeral knell,

The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with "nine at night,"

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,