There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled, two green eyes shoneAnd a wolf lay down beside me!

Little one, be not frightened:
I and the wolf together,

Side by side, through the long, long night,
Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me;
Each of us warmed the other;
Each of us felt in the stormy dark
That beast and man was brother.

And, when the falling forest

No longer crashed in warning,
Each of us went from our hiding-place
Forth in the wild wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment,
Hark! how the wind is roaring!
Father's house is a better place
When the stormy rain is pouring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

* 24 *

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

THE breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame:

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear:

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang;

And the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the Anthem of the Free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared,— This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band:

Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth:
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? - They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

They have left unstained what there they found,

Freedom to worship God.

FELICIA HEMANS.

66

* 25 *

THE ROOK AND THE LARK.

Good-night, Sir Rook," said a little Lark;
"The daylight fades, it will soon be dark;
I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;
I've sung my hymn to the dying day:
So now I haste to my quiet nook

In yon dewy meadow. Good-night, Sir Rook."

1 amain, with might, powerfully.

8 ween, think, fancy.

2 mere, a pool or lake.

66

Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend, With a haughty toss and a distant bend;

"I also go to my rest profound,

But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground;
The fittest place for a bird like me

Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree.

"I opened my eyes at peep of day,
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams, —
Soaring too high to be seen or heard,

6

And said to myself, What a foolish bird!'

"I trod the park with a princely air; I filled my crop with the richest fare;

I cawed all day mid a lordly crew,

And I made more noise in the world than you; The sun shone full on my coal-black wing; 'I looked and wondered.-Good-night, poor thing!"

"Good-night, once more," said the Lark's sweet voice;

"I see no cause to repent my choice.
You build your nest in the lofty pine;
But is your slumber more soft than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I;
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?" 1

1 minstrelsy, music, singing, or songs.

* 26 *

TO THE LAND OF GOLD.

FAR away, where the tempests play,
Over the lonely seas,

Sail we still, with a steady will,
Onward before the breeze.

Onward yet, till our hearts forget -
The loves that we leave behind,
Till the memories dear that thrill in our ear
Flow past like the whistling wind.

Let them come,-sweet thoughts of home,
And voices we loved of old:

What care we, that sail the sea,
Bound for a Land of Gold?

Gems there are which are lovelier far
Than the flash of a maiden's eyes;

Jewels bright as the magic light

That purples the evening skies.

Crowns that gleam like a fairy dream,
Treasures of price untold;

And we are bound for that charméd ground;

We sail for the Land of Gold!

W. E. LITTLEWOOD.