ODE TO THE DAFFODIL. 375 Huge, cloud-like trees grow dense with sprays and buds, And cast a shapelier gloom o'er freshening grass, And through the fringe of ragged woods More shrouded sunbeams pass. Herald and harbinger! with thee (A sacristan whose gusty taper Flashes through earliest morning vapour), Thou ring'st dark nocturns and dim prime. And warm, at last, where hollies throng, The mirror'd sunbeams glitter. With silk the osier plumes her tendrils thin: Sweet blasts, though keen as sweet, the blue lake wrinkle ; And buds on leafless boughs begin Against gray skies to twinkle. To thee belongs A pathos drown'd in later scents and songs! Thou com'st when first the spring On winter's verge encroaches; When gifts that speed on wounded wing Thou com'st when blossoms blighted, Retracted sweets, and ditty, From suppliants oft deceived and spited More anger draw than pity! Thee the old shepherd, on the bleak hill-side, Far distant eyeing leans upon his staff Till from his cheek the wind-brush'd tear is dried; A gorse-bush slowly over-crept with gold. Thou laugh'st, bold outcast bright as brave, When the wood bellows, and the cave, And leagues inland is heard the wave! Hating the dainty and the fine As sings the blackbird thou dost shine! Thou com'st while yet on mountain lawns high up Lurks the last snow-wreath :-by the berried breer While yet the black spring in its craggy cup No music makes or charms no listening ear. Thou com'st while from the oak stock or red beach Dead Autumn scoffs young Spring with splenetic speech ; When in her vidual chastity the Year With frozen memories of the sacred past Her doors and heart makes fast, And loves no flower save those that deck the bier :- With golden surf is curdled o'er; Thou com'st while, meteor-like, 'mid fens, the weed Swims, wan in light; while sleet-showers whitening glare;— Weeks ere by river-brims, new furr'd, the reed Child of the strong and strenuous East! A SONG OF THE BRIGADE. 377 Phosphor of an ungrateful sun That rises but to bid thy lamp begone: Farewell! I saw Writ large on woods and lawns to-day that Law To hero-haunted shades of dark Persephoné. To-day the Spring is crown'd a queen: but thou Take my song's blessing, and depart, A SONG OF THE BRIGADE. AUBREY DE VERE. RIVER that through this purple plain Tell him I loved, and loved for aye, Tell him when evening's tearful light Bathes those dark towers on Aughrim's height A freeman's banner o'er him waves! Where freemen sleep whose sons are slaves. Tell him I nurse his noble race, Nor weep save o'er one sleeping face Wherein those looks of his I trace. For him And bless him! Bless the bold Brigade,— THE OPENING OF THE PIANO. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. In the little southern parlour of the house you may have seen, With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night. Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came! What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame, When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas, With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys! Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy, For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy, Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play." For the dear soul knew that music was a very sove reign balm ; She had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm, In the days of slender harpsicords with tapping, tinkling quills, Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills. So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please, Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys. Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim, As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn." -Catharine, child of a neighbour, curly and rosyred (Wedded since, and a widow-something like ten years dead), Hearing a gush of music such as none before, Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door. Just as the "Jubilate " in threaded whisper dies, Open it! open it, lady!" the little maiden cries (For she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in a box she heard), "Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!" AUTUMN WOODS. BRYANT. ERE in the northern gale The summer tresses of the trees are gone, |