THE OWL By Bryan Waller Procter ("Barry Cornwall") N the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral Owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he's abroad and Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, O- when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight; If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate So, when the night falls, and dogs do bowl, Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown Owl! DARWINISM By Mrs. Darmsteter (A. Mary F. Robinson) HEN first the unflowering Fern forest, Shadowed the dim lagoons of old, rest Swayed the great fronds of green and gold. Until the flexible stems grew rude, The fronds began to branch and bower, Then on the fruitful Forest-boughs And plucked the apple and sucked the grape. Until in him at length there stirred Not Love, nor the wild fruits he sought; Long since.. And now the same unrest Goads to the same invisible goal, Till some new gift, undreamed, unguessed, SCYTHE SONG By Andrew Lang OWERS, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, Hush, ab bush, the Scythes are saying, THE CROCUS By Harriet Eleanor Hamilton King UT of the frozen earth below, snow, No flower, but a film, I push to light; No stem, no bud, yet I have burst The bars of winter, I am the first, O Sun, to greet thee out of the night! Bare are the branches, cold is the air, I come, a flame that is fed by none: Thou seest me golden, O golden Sun! Deep in the warm sleep underground Life is still, and the peace profound : Yet a beam that pierced, and a thrill that smote Call'd me and drew me from far away; I rose, I came, to the open day I have won, unshelter'd, alone, remote. No bee strays out to greet me at morë, I shall hear no note of the nightingale; Before him here when the world was pale. They will follow, the rose with the thorny stem, The hyacinth stalk, soft airs for them; They shall have strength, I have but love: They shall not be tender as I, — Yet I fought here first, to bloom, to die, O Glory of heaven, O Ruler of morn, Into thy image will grow my cup, Till a sunbeam dissolve it into the same. |