X.

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
"No trifling! I can't wait! beside,
I've promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime

Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor —
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver !
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion."

XI.

"How?” cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

XII.

Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering. Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,

Out came the children running:

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood.
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by-
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However, he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.

"He never can cross that mighty top!
He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!"

When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed;

And when all were in, to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after-years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say,—

"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And every thing was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles' wings;
And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still,

And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will.

To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas for Hamelin !

XIV.

There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says, that Heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,

Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,
And piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
"And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen Hundred and Seventy-six:"
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the Children's last retreat
They called it the Pied Piper's Street -
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labor.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,
And on the Great Church window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbors lay such stress

To their fathers and mothers having risen

Out of some subterranean prison
Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago, in a mighty band, .

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don't understand.

To George M—.

YES, I do love thee well, my child!
Albeit mine's a wandering mind;
But never, darling, hast thou smiled
Or breathed a wish that did not find
A ready echo in my heart.

What hours I've held thee on my knee, Thy little rosy lips apart!

Or, when asleep, I've gazed on thee, And with old tunes sung thee to rest, Hugging thee closely to my bosom ; For thee my very heart hath blest, My joy, my care, my blue-eyed blossom!

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THOMAS MILLER.

A Visit from St. Nicholas.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with

care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's

nap

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the mat

ter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the
sky,

So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys—and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a
bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how

merry;

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the

snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump-a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his
work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!"

CLEMENT C. MOORE.

The Gambols of Children.

Down the dimpled green-sward dancing,
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy —
Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing,
Love's irregular little levy.

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,

How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after,

Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces, Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it. GEORGE DARLEY.

Saturday Afternoon.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old-

That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, And my years are well-nigh told.

It is very true-it is very true —

I am old, and I "bide my time;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;

I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go-

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness

To see the young so gay.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

The Little Vagabond.

DEAR mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy, and pleasant, and warm:
Besides, I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.

But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

Then the parson might preach and drink and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor hiding, nor
birch;

And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the devil or the

barrel,

But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel. WILLIAM BLAKE.

The Schoolmistress.

АH me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,

To think how modest worth neglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise. Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try

To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies,
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village marked with little spire, Embowered in trees, and hardly known to Fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,

A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name, Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;

They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame; And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,

133

For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did stow, Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low;

And as they looked, they found their horror grew,

And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)

A lifeless phantom near a garden placed; So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast; They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast;

Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
No superstition clog his dance of joy,
No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,

On which the tribe their gambols do display; And at the door imprisoning-board is seen,

Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! The noises intermixed, which thence resound, Do Learning's little tenement betray; Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,

Emblem right meet of decency does yield; Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, As is the hare-bell that adorns the field; And in her hand for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fears entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled, And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.