And the foam of his gasping lay white on

the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and

pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their

wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of

Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

TO THE CUCKOO.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear,

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed-for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet,
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!