With tiny footprints fret the dusty square,
And huddling strive to elude relentless fate.
And hark! with snuffling grunt, and now and then
A squeak, a squad of long-nosed gentry run
The gutters to explore, with comic jerk
Of the investigating snout, and wink
At passer-by, and saucy, lounging gait,
And independent, lash-defying course.
And now the baker, with his steaming load,
Hums like the humble-bee from door to door,
And thoughts of breakfast rise; and harmonies
Domestic, song of kettle, and hissing urn,
Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet,
Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork,
Bring to a close the Melodies of Morn.




THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE.


The Melodies of Morning late I sang.
Recall we now those Melodies of Even
Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o'erpast;
Full of the theme, O Phoebus, hear me sing.
What time thy golden car draws near its goal,--
Mount Auburn's pillared summit,--chorus loud
Of mud-born songsters fills the dewy air.
Hark! in yon shallow pool, what melody