THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD

THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice,
And with that boding cry
Why o'er the waves dost fly?

O, rather, bird, with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,

As driven by a beating storm at sea;
Thy cry is weak and scared,
As if thy mates had shared

The doom of us: Thy wail,
What doth it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,

Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge

The Mystery - the Word.

THE CHANTING CHERUBS - A GROUP BY GREENOUGH

That with the stream they seemed to flow;

They told me that his heart was broke.

And seek the still and twilight wood, His spirit, weary of the sun,

In humblest things found chiefest good;

That I was of a lowly frame,

And far more constant than the flower, Which, vain with many a boastful name, But fluttered out its idle hour;