Mais le dernier de ces preux,
Etait un pauvre Chartreux,
Qui disait, d’un ton robuste,
“Benedictions sur le Juste! 
     Bons amis,
Benissons Pere Agassiz!”

Ils arrivent trois a trois,
Montent l’escalier de bois
Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme
Peut permettre ce vacarme,
     Bons amis,
A la porte d’Agassiz!

“Ouvrer donc, mon bon Seigneur,
Ouvrez vite et n’ayez peur;
Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes
Gens de bien et gentilshommes,
     Bons amis
De la famille Agassiz!”

Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous! 
C’en est trop de vos glouglous;
Epargnez aux Philosophes
Vos abominables strophes! 
     Bons amis,
Respectez mon Agassiz!

**************

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

FLIGHT THE THIRD

FATA MORGANA

O sweet illusions of Song,
  That tempt me everywhere,
In the lonely fields, and the throng
  Of the crowded thoroughfare!

I approach, and ye vanish away,
  I grasp you, and ye are gone;
But ever by nigh an day,
  The melody soundeth on.

As the weary traveller sees
  In desert or prairie vast,
Blue lakes, overhung with trees,
  That a pleasant shadow cast;

Fair towns with turrets high,
  And shining roofs of gold,
That vanish as he draws nigh,
  Like mists together rolled,—­

So I wander and wander along,
  And forever before me gleams
The shining city of song,
  In the beautiful land of dreams.

But when I would enter the gate
  Of that golden atmosphere,
It is gone, and I wander and wait
  For the vision to reappear.

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER

Each heart has its haunted chamber,
  Where the silent moonlight falls! 
On the floor are mysterious footsteps,
  There are whispers along the walls!

And mine at times is haunted
  By phantoms of the Past
As motionless as shadows
  By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window,
  That is not seen by day,
For as soon as the dawn approaches
  It vanishes away.

It sits there in the moonlight
  Itself as pale and still,
And points with its airy finger
  Across the window-sill.

Without before the window,
  There stands a gloomy pine,
Whose boughs wave upward and downward
  As wave these thoughts of mine.

And underneath its branches
  Is the grave of a little child,
Who died upon life’s threshold,
  And never wept nor smiled.

What are ye, O pallid phantoms! 
  That haunt my troubled brain? 
That vanish when day approaches,
  And at night return again?

What are ye, O pallid phantoms! 
  But the statues without breath,
That stand on the bridge overarching
  The silent river of death?