Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent royal of their emperor,

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold;
The civil citizens kneading up the honey;
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate:
The sad-eyed justice with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale

The lazy, yawning drone.

Vaulting on thine airy feet.

Clap thy shielded sides and carol,

Carol clearly, chirrup sweet,

Thou art a mailèd warrior, in youth and strength

complete;

Armed cap-a-pie

Full fair to see;
Unknowing fear,
Undreading loss,

A gallant cavalier,

Sans peur et sans reproche,
In sunlight and in shadow,
The Bayard of the meadow.

I would dwell with thee,
Merry grasshopper,

Thou art so glad and free,

And as light as air;

Thou hast no sorrow or tears,
Thou hast no compt of years,
No withered immortality,
But a short youth sunny and free.
Carol clearly, bound along,
Soon thy joy is over,

A summer of loud song,
And slumbers in the clover.

What hast thou to do with evil
In thine hour of love and revel,
In thy heat of summer pride,
Pushing the thick roots aside

Of the singing flowerèd grasses,

That brush thee with their silken tresses?
What hast thou to do with evil,
Shooting, singing, ever springing
In and out the emerald glooms,
Ever leaping, ever singing,
Lighting on the golden blooms?

-Alfred Tennyson.

THE

THE BOSTON GRASSHOPPER.

HE sky is blue; the sea is bright; the sunny day is long;

I swing upon my lofty perch, and sing my summer song. The changing crowds upon the street are rushing to and

fro;

They see no sky, no sea, nor sun; their thoughts are all below.

They form a surging sea that beats against the ancient

Hall;

Its waves hear not the voices that once shook the fortress

wall;

But in the silent summer night the surges are asleep;

'Tis then the solemn sounds of old come up the stairway

steep.

My cousins from the flowery fields that in the country lie, All say, "You are a vane, vain thing, a creature lifted high.

You feel yourself above us all, as everybody knows, You're praised so much your head is turned with every wind that blows.

You rest on Faneuil Hall, and think you're true and bold; You're nothing but a copperhead, although you seem pure gold.

You turn around and look around, on sea and then on

shore,

No wonder you're a vain, vain thing; you're stuffed with Boston lore."

My country cousins, think a while; a hundred years ago, And forty more, I sat up here, and watched the streets below.

It was a little country town; a narrow piece of land;

The swelling sea came close each day and broke on either hand.

Through all the changing century I've seen the city grow; The sea went out; the sands came in; the hills were leveled low.

The cows upon the Common and the gardens in the town, Long years ago were banished far with all the 'hoppers brown.

I've seen a giant marching on, and Progress is his name; And Peril oft has ridden fast with fight and flood and

flame.

And Peace has sung her sweetest songs, and Pride has smiled to see

Prosperity shed o'er the town her blessings full and free.

I've heard heroic hearts send out, in peril and in peace, Their thunders o'er the sea of thought, whose waves shall

never cease;

The echoes of the eloquence, the stirrings of the soul, Are heard afar from sea to sea, and felt from pole to pole.

What wonder then if I am vain! on Faneuil Hall I rest; The North Wind and the South Wind too, the East Wind and the West,

Have sung me songs of fairer lands, but I forget them all; I am content to ever stay on famous Faneuil Hall.

Lucinda J. Gregg.

THE HOUSEKEEPER.

HE frugal snail, with forecast of repose,

THE

Carries his house with him where'er he goes; Peeps out, — and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile again.

-

Touch but a tip of him, a horn, 'tis well,-
He curls up in his sanctuary shell.

He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites
And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o'er nights.
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
And his sole riches. Whereso'er he roam,

Knock when you will, — he's sure to be at home.

IRDS in their nests are softly calling,
The dew is falling, the day is done.
Over the hill come night winds creeping,
To lull thy sleeping, my little one.

Far in the sky gleams the golden crescent,
With motion incessant she swings on high
A golden hammock for angels swinging,
While softly singing a lullaby.

Then swing slow, sing low,

Droop, little head, in thy slumber deep;
Breathe low, breezes blow ·

Zephyrs that bring on drowsy wing
Sweet sleep.