THE SINGERS.

That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth with soul of fire,

Held in his hand a golden lyre;

Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,

And stirred, with accents deep and loud,
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.

"I see

But the great Master said,
No best in kind, but in degree;

I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

"These are the three great chords of might;

And he whose ear is tuned aright

Will hear no discord in the three,

But the most perfect harmony."

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

PHILOMELA.

HARK! ah, the Nightingale!

The tawny-throated!

Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark-what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,

Still, after many years, in distant lands,

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain

That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain! Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn,

With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm ?

Dost thou to-night behold,

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse,

With hot cheeks and seared eyes,

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more essay

Thy flight; and feel come over thee,

Poor fugitive, the feathery change,

Once more; and once more make resound,

MUSIC.

With love and hate, triumph and agony,

Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale?

Listen, Eugenia!

How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again-thou hearest?

Eternal passion!

Eternal pain!

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

MUSIC.

O LULL me, lull me, charming air!
My senses rock with wonder sweet!
Like snow on wool thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet.
Grief who need fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony.

JOHN DRYDEN.

66

So I piped; he wept to hear.

Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer." So I sang the same again,

66

While he wept with joy to hear.

Piper, sit thee down and write, In a book, that all may read." So he vanished from my sight,

And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen;

And I stained the water clear; And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION.

LONE upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him,
Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid;

Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him,

Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecayed. When will he awaken?

When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying
Night after night-and the cry has been in vain;

Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying,
But the tones of the beloved ones were never heard again.
When will he awaken?

Asked the midnight's silver queen.

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping;

Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead; By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping, And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. When will he awaken?

Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring;
Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above.
When will the Fates, the life of life restoring,

Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring Love?
When will he awaken?

Asks the midnight's weary queen.