THE SINGING WIRE.

Hark to that faint, ethereal twang
That from the bosom of the breeze
Has caught its rise and fall: there rang
Aolian harmonies!

I looked; again the mournful, chords,
In random rhythm lightly flung
From off the wire, came shaped in words;
And thus, meseemed, they sung.

"I, messenger of many fates,
Strung to the tones of woe or weal,
Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates
With all men know or feel,--

"Oh, is it strange that I should wail?
Leave me my tearless, sad refrain,
When in the pine-top wakes the gale
That breathes of coming rain.

"There is a spirit in the post;
It, too, was once a murmuring tree;
Its sapless, sad, and withered ghost
Echoes my melody.

"Come close, and lay your listening ear