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THE OWL

By Bryan Waller Procter ("Barry Cornwall")

[graphic]

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
well!

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;
All mock him outright, by day;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away!

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl!

And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom;

And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom;

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill!

O- when the moon shines, and dogs do howl,
Then, then, is the joy of the Horned Owl!

Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight;
The Owl hath his share of good:

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood!

Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate
They are each unto each a pride;

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Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside!

So, when the night falls, and dogs do bowl,
Sing, Ho! for the reign of the Horned Owl!
We know not alway

Who are kings by day,

But the king of the night is the bold brown Owl!

DARWINISM

By Mrs. Darmsteter (A. Mary F. Robinson)

[graphic]

HEN first the unflowering Fern

forest,

Shadowed the dim lagoons of old,
A vague unconscious long un-

rest

Swayed the great fronds of green and gold.

Until the flexible stems grew rude,

The fronds began to branch and bower,
And lo! upon the unblossoming wood
There breaks a dawn of apple-flower.

Then on the fruitful Forest-boughs
For ages long the unquiet ape
Swung happy in his airy house

And plucked the apple and sucked the grape.

Until in him at length there stirred
The old, unchanged, remote distress,
That pierced his world of wind and bird
With some divine unhappiness.

Not Love, nor the wild fruits he sought;
Nor the fierce battles of his clan
Could still the unborn and aching thought
Until the brute became the man.

Long since..

And now the same unrest

Goads to the same invisible goal,

Till some new gift, undreamed, unguessed,
End the new travail of the soul.

SCYTHE SONG

By Andrew Lang

OWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,

What is the word methinks ye know,

Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass
below?

Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

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Hush, ab bush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush'tis the lullaby Time is singing-
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,
Hush, ab hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!

THE CROCUS

By Harriet Eleanor Hamilton King

UT of the frozen earth below,
Out of the melting of the

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snow,

No flower, but a film, I push

to light;

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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,
Yet it is fire at the heart I bear,

I come, a flame that is fed by none:
The summer hath blossoms for her delight,
Thick and dewy and waxen-white,

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 die ere the butterfly is born,

I shall hear no note of the nightingale;
The swallow will come at the break of green,
He will never know that I have been

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,
To shine in his face who shines above.

O Glory of heaven, O Ruler of morn,
O Dream that shap'd me, and I was born
In thy likeness, starry, and flower of flame;
I lie on the earth, and to thee look up,

Into thy image will grow my cup,

Till a sunbeam dissolve it into the same.

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