And I said--"The thought of the thrushes Will shake
With rapture remembered her heart; and her shy
Tongue of the dear times dead will take
To make her a living song, when sigh
The soft night winds disburthened by.
Hark now!"--for the upraised quivering wing,
The throat exultant, I could descry,--
And the tongue of the singer needs must sing!

L'ENVOI.
But the bird dropped dead with only a cry.
I found its tongue was withered, poor thing!
Then I no whit wondered, for well knew I
That the heart of the singer will break or sing.



A HERALD.


Ere the Spring comes near
O'er the smoking hills,
Stirring a million rills
To laughter low and clear
Till winds are hushed to hear,--

Ere the eaves at noon
Thaw and drip, there flies
A herald thro' the skies
With promise of a boon--