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Thrice welcome, darling of the spring !
Even yet thou art to me
A voice, a mystery.
The same, whom in my school-boy days
I listen’d to: that cry Which made me look a thousand ways,
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Though woods and on the green: And thou wert still a hope, a love ;
Still long'd for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet,
Can lie upon the plain, And listen till I do beget
That golden time again,
TO THE OWL.
Owl! that lovest the boding sky;
In the murky air,
What sawest thou there? For I heard, through the fog, thy screaming !
“ The maple's head
Was glowing red, And red were the wings of the autumn sky;
But a redder gleam
Rose from the stream
Owl! that lovest the stormy sky!
Speak, oh! speak !
What crimsoned thy beak,
“ 'Twas blood, 'twas blood !
And it rose like a flood,
Owl! that lovest the midnight sky !
Look! while the moon is hurrying by !
“ In the thicket's shade
[eye !” You may see, through the boughs, his moveless
Owl! that lovest the darken'd sky!
A step beyond,
From the silent pond
“On the water's edge,
Through the trampled sedge, A bubble burst, and gurgled by:
My eyes were dim,
But I look'd from the brim,
Owl! that lovest the moonless sky!
Where the casements blaze
With the faggot's rays,
Owl! what's this,
That snort and hiss,
'Tis he! 'tis he !
He sits 'mid the three,
Owl! that lovest the cloudy sky!
Where clank the chains
Through the prison panes,
“ In her midnight dream,
'Tis a woman's scream, And she calls on one-on one of Three !”
Look in once more,
Through the grated door :“'Tis a soul that prays
Owl! that hatest the morning sky !
On thy pinions gray,
Away !-away !-
From the midnight chime,
To morning prime,-
T above splendid lines were written in reference to a murd whose details somewhat disgustingly occupied the public mind, in 1824,