THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S NEST.

(Longfellow.)

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
With his swarthy grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,

Long besieged, in mud and rain,

Some old frontier town of Flanders.

Up and down the dreary camp,

In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These hidalgos, dull and damp,

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.

Thus, as to and fro they went,

Over upland and through hollow,

Giving their impatience vent,
Perched upon the Emperor's tent,
In her nest they spied a swallow.

Yes; it was a swallow's nest

Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane or tail or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows, east or west, After skirmish of the forces.

Then an old hidalgo said,

As he twirled his grey mustachio,
Sure this swallow overhead
Thinks the emperor's tent a shed,
And the emperor but a macho!"*

Hearing his imperial name

Coupled with those words of malice,

*Macho in Spanish signifies "a mule."

Half in anger, half in shame,
Forth the great campaigner came
Slowly from his canvas palace.

"Let no hand the bird molest,"
Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!"
Adding then by way of jest,
"Golondrina* is my guest,

'Tis the wife of some deserter."

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,

Through the camp was spread the rumour, And the soldiers, as they quaffed

Flemish beer at dinner, laughed

At the emperor's pleasant humour.

So unharmed and unafraid

Sat the swallow still and brooded,
Till the constant cannonade

Through the walls a breach had made,
And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent,
Struck its tents, as if disbanding,
Only not the emperor's tent,
For he ordered ere he went,

Very curtly, "Leave it standing!"

So it stood there all alone,

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o'er those walls of stone

Which the cannonshot had shattered.

*Golondrina is " a swallow" and " a deserter."

AN ODE.-(Sir W. Fones.)

What constitutes a state?

Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride,
No; men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;
Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain :
These constitute a state,

And sovereign law, that state's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend Dissension like a vapour sinks,

And e'en the all-dazzling crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this heaven-loved isle,

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore!
No more shall Freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,
'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

ON HIS TWENTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

(Milton.)

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near,

And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits indueth.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of
Heaven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so

As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.—(Milton.)

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless. Though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning chide :
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts; who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait,"

Live in Love; 'tis Pleasant Living. 183

LIVE IN LOVE; 'TIS PLEASANT LIVING. (Edward Capern.)

Be not harsh and unforgiving;
Live in love, 'tis pleasant living.
If an angry man should meet thee,
And assail thee indiscreetly,

Turn not thou again and rend him,
Lest thou needlessly offend him;
Show him love hath been thy teacher;
Kindness is a potent preacher:
Gentleness is e'er forgiving-
Live in love; 'tis pleasant living.
Why be angry with each other?
Man was made to love his brother;
Kindness is a human duty,
Meekness a celestial beauty.

Words of kindness, spoke in season,
Have a weight with men of reason.
Don't be others' follies blaming,
And their little vices naming;
Charity's a cure for railing,
Suffer much, is all-prevailing.
Courage, then, and be forgiving-
Live in love; 'tis pleasant living.

Let thy loving be a passion,
Not a complimental fashion.
Love is wisdom, ever proving
True philosophy is loving.

Hast thou known that bitter feeling
'Gendered by our hate's concealing?
Better love, though e'er so blindly;
E'en thy foes will call it kindly.
Words are wind; oh, let them never
Friendship's golden love-cords sever!