Green Fields and Running Brooks | Page 8

nor title nor estate,
Nor speech but half articulate,--
He
owns nor princely robe nor crown;--
Yet, draped in patched and faded
brown,
He owns the bird-songs of the hills--
The laughter of the
April rills;
And his are all the diamonds set.

In Morning's dewy
coronet,--
And his the Dusk's first minted stars
That twinkle
through the pasture-bars,
And litter all the skies at night
With
glittering scraps of silver light;--
The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim,

In beaten gold, belongs to him.
JACK THE GIANT KILLER.

Bad Boy's Version.
Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':--
Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz
Jack,
An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap
Maked of gold, an' a
"'visibul cap;"
An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows--
Th' horns an'
all--an' pigs an' sows!
But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh!
So
awful sharp 'at he could go
An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two
Fore
'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do!
An' one ole Gi'nt, he had four

Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"--
An' he wuz feered o'
Jack--'cause he,
Jack, he killed six--five--ten--three,
An' all o' th'
uther ole Gi'nts but him:
An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim

'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"--
Nen thay was "griffuns" at
the door:
But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum
Clean acrost; an'
when he come
To th' uther side, he thist put on
His "'visibul cap,"
an' nen, dog-gone!
You could n't see him at all!--An' so
He slewed
the "griffuns"--boff, you know!
Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head

High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,--
"Whoever kin this trumput
blow
Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!"
An' Jack, he thist reached
up an' blowed
The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed
Th' castul-gates
wide open, an'
Nen tuck his gold sword in his han',
An' thist
marched in t' ole "Bumblebore,"
An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout
four
Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!--
Wisht 'at I'd been
Jack!--don't you?
WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED.
O it was but a dream I had

While the musician played!--
And here
the sky, and here the glad
Old ocean kissed the glade--
And here the
laughing ripples ran,
And here the roses grew
That threw a kiss to
every man
That voyaged with the crew.
Our silken sails in lazy folds
Drooped in the breathless breeze:
As
o'er a field of marigolds
Our eyes swam o'er the seas;
While here
the eddies lisped and purled
Around the island's rim,
And up from

out the underworld
We saw the mermen swim.
And it was dawn and middle-day
And midnight--for the moon
On
silver rounds across the bay
Had climbed the skies of June--
And
there the glowing, glorious king
Of day ruled o'er his realm,
With
stars of midnight glittering
About his diadem.
The seagull reeled on languid wing
In circles round the mast,
We
heard the songs the sirens sing
As we went sailing past;
And up and
down the golden sands
A thousand fairy throngs
Flung at us from
their flashing hands
The echoes of their songs.
O it was but a dream I had
While the musician played--
For here the
sky, and here the glad
Old ocean kissed the glade;
And here the
laughing ripples ran,
And here the roses grew
That threw a kiss to
every man
That voyaged with the crew.
AUGUST.
A day of torpor in the sullen heat
Of Summer's passion: In the
sluggish stream
The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,
With drowsy
eyes, and dream.
Long since the winds have died, and in the sky
There lives no cloud
to hint of Nature's grief;
The sun glares ever like an evil eye,
And
withers flower and leaf.
Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote
The thresher lies deserted,
like some old
Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat
Upon a sea of
gold.
The yearning cry of some bewildered bird
Above an empty nest, and
truant boys
Along the river's shady margin heard--
A harmony of
noise--

A melody of wrangling voices blent
With liquid laughter, and with
rippling calls
Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent
To mimic
waterfalls.
And through the hazy veil the atmosphere
Has draped about the
gleaming face of Day,
The sifted glances of the sun appear
In
splinterings of spray.
The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn,
Trails o'er the hillside, and
the passer-by,
A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on
His journey to
the sky.
And down across the valley's drooping sweep,
Withdrawn to farthest
limit of the glade,
The forest stands in silence, drinking deep
Its
purple wine of shade.
The gossamer floats up on phantom wing;
The sailor-vision voyages
the skies
And carries into chaos everything
That freights the weary
eyes:
Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat
Increases--reaches--passes
fever's height,
And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet,
Within
the arms of Night.
TO HEAR HER SING.
To hear her sing--to hear her sing--
It is to hear the birds of Spring

In dewy groves on blooming sprays
Pour out their blithest
roundelays.
It is to hear the robin trill
At morning, or the whip-poor-will
At
dusk, when stars are blossoming--
To hear her sing--to hear her sing!
To hear her sing--it is to hear
The laugh of childhood ringing clear

In woody path or grassy lane
Our feet may never fare again.

Faint, far away as Memory dwells,
It is to hear the