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PEGASUS IN POUND.
HENRY WADŞWORTH LONGFELLOW.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) was born at Portland, Maine. He wrote both prose and poetry, but he is famous as a poet.
Once into a quiet village,
Without haste and without heed,
Strayed the poet's winged steed.
It was autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
Burned among the withering leaves.
Loud the clamorous bell was ringing
From its belfry gaunt and grim; 'Twas the daily call to labor,
Not a triumph meant for him.
Not the less he saw the landscape,
In its gleaming vapor veiled;
That the dying leaves exhaled.
Thus, upon the village common,
By the school-boys he was found;
Put him straightway into pound.
Then the somber village crier,
Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming
There was an estray to sell.
And the curious country people,
Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous
Winged steed, with mane of gold.
Thus the day passed, and the evening
Fell, with vapors cold and dim; But it brought no food nor shelter,
Brought no straw nor stall, for him.
Patiently, and still expectant,
Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,
Saw the tranquil, patient stars; ·
Till at length the bell at midnight
Sounded from its dark abode, And from out a neighboring farmyard,
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.
Then, with nostrils wide distended,
Breaking from his iron chain, And unfolding far his pinions,
To those stars he soared again,
On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
And they knew not when nor where.
But they found, upon the greensward ·
Where his struggling hoofs had trod,
From the hoof-marks in the sod.
From that hour, the fount unfailing
Gladdens the whole region round,
While it soothes them with its sound. Pěg'á sús. Á lec'try on. Clamorous (klăm er ús): calling or demanding urgently. Som'bēr : somewhat dark.
SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES.”
The year's at the spring,
- Robert Browning.
The snan His Heave world.
AGNES REPPLIER, an American writer of essays. She ranks among the best writers of the country.
Many years ago, there lived in Germany a poet named Walter of Vogelweide, who sang so sweetly that the great ladies at Court and the poor peasants in the field alike loved to listen to him.
“Walter sings like a bird,” they said; and this was the praise he valued most; for, of all things on earth, the little birds were dearest to his heart.
He was very gentle and very gay, and he was noted specially for three things: a great pity for the heathen, a great devotion to Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, and a great love for flowers and birds.
When winter came, and the swallows flew to the south, Walter's heart was heavy and downcast.
“The hoar-frost thrilled the little birds with pain,
And they forgot to sing,”
he wrote sadly in one of his poems.
When spring returned, and the green woods rang with merry chirping, Walter was happy as a lark, and would wander abroad for days, listening to his feathered friends, and matching his own notes with theirs.
When the hour of death was at hand, the poet even then remembered his old favorites, and begged that he might be buried under a linden tree in the cloister of Wurz