A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
    In tattered cloak of army pattern,
  And Galatea joined the throng,—­
    A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;
  While old Silenus staggered out
    From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,
  And bade the piper, with a shout,
    To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!

  A newsboy and a peanut-girl
    Like little Fauns began to caper: 
  His hair was all in tangled curl,
    Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
  And still the gathering larger grew,
    And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
  While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
    His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

  O heart of Nature, beating still
    With throbs her vernal passion taught her,—­
  Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,
    Or by the Arethusan water! 
  New forms may fold the speech, new lands
    Arise within these ocean-portals,
  But Music waves eternal wands,—­
    Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

  So thought I,—­but among us trod
    A man in blue, with legal baton,
  And scoffed the vagrant demigod,
    And pushed him from the step I sat on. 
  Doubting, I mused upon the cry,
    “Great Pan is dead!”—­and all the people
  Went on their ways:—­and clear and high
    The quarter sounded from the steeple.

E.C.  STEDMAN.

Auspex.

  My heart, I cannot still it,
  Nest that had song-birds in it;
  And when the last shall go,
  The dreary days, to fill it,
  Instead of lark or linnet,
  Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.

  Had they been swallows only,
  Without the passion stronger
  That skyward longs and sings,—­
  Woe’s me, I shall be lonely
  When I can feel no longer
  The impatience of their wings!

  A moment, sweet delusion,
  Like birds the brown leaves hover;
  But it will not be long
  Before their wild confusion
  Fall wavering down to cover
  The poet and his song.

J.R.  LOWELL.

Birds.[5]

  Birds are singing round my window,
    Tunes the sweetest ever heard,
  And I hang my cage there daily,
    But I never catch a bird.

  So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
    And they sing there all day long: 
  But they will not fold their pinions
    In the little cage of Song.

R.H.  STODDARD.

[5] From “The Poems of R.H.  Stoddard,” copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

Toujours Amour.

  Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,
  At what age does Love begin? 
  Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
  Summers three, my fairy queen,
  But a miracle of sweets,
  Soft approaches, sly retreats,
  Show the little archer there,
  Hidden in your pretty hair;
  When didst learn a heart to win? 
  Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

      “Oh!” the rosy lips reply,
      “I can’t tell you if I try. 
      ’Tis so long I can’t remember: 
      Ask some younger lass than I!”