Good-by, sweet day, good-by!

Thy glow and charm, thy smiles and tones and glances,

Vanish at last, and solemn night advances;

Ah, couldst thou yet a little longer stay!

Good-by, sweet day!

Good-by, sweet day, good-by!

All thy rich gifts my grateful heart remembers, The while I watch thy sunset's smoldering embers Die in the west beneath the twilight gray.

Good-by, sweet day!

Celia Leighton Thaxter.

ΤΗ

WHIPPOORWILL.

HE western sky blazed through the trees,
And in the east the dove-light shone;

Low fields of clover to the breeze

Gave out a fragrant monotone;

While sharp-voiced, whirring things beyond
Sent a faint treble through the air,

And discords of the hidden pond

Pulsed like an anthem, deep and rare.

Yet all the twilight range seemed still,

The tumult was so subtle-sweet;

When forth it burst, clear, slow, complete,
The evening call of

"Whip-poor-will!”

The yarrow, crowding by the hedge,

Stirred not its specked, uncertain white;

The locust on the upland's edge

Stood tranced against the blaze of light;

For now the throbbing air was mute,

Since the wild note had pierced it through, -
That call so clear, so resolute,

So tender, dominant, and true.

When suddenly, across the hill,

Long, low, and sweet, with dreamy fall,

Yet true and mellow, call for call,

Elate, and with a human thrill,

Came the far answer :

66

Whip-poor-will!"

- Mary Mapes Dodge.

From "Along The Way," Copyright, 1879, by Mary Mapes Dodge.

In the

N the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,
The spectral owl doth dwell;

Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,

But at dusk he's abroad and well!

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him,~~
All mock him outright by day;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away.

Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,

Then, then is the reign of the horned owl!

And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold,

And loveth the wood's deep gloom;

And with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold
She awaiteth her ghastly groom;

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill!

Oh, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl,
Then, then is the reign of the hornèd owl!

Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight!
The owl hath his share of good;

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood.

Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate;
They are each unto each a pride;

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside.

So when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing ho! for the reign of the horned owl!
We know not alway

Who are kings of day;

But the king of the night is the bold, brown owl! -Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall).

TH

TWILIGHT AT SEA.

'HE twilight hours, like birds, flew by,
As lightly and as free ;

Ten thousand stars were in the sky,

Ten thousand on the sea;

For every wave, with dimpled face,

That leaped upon the air,

Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.

— Amelia B. Welby.

DOVER BEACH.

HE sea is calm to-night.

THE

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits; -on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window; sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd sand,
Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Matthew Arnold.

THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES.

IS the middle watch of a summer's night

'TIS

The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;

Naught is seen in the vault on high

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue,

A river of light, on the welkin blue.

The moon looks down on old Cro'nest;

She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw,
In a silver cone, on the wave below.
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,

And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the firefly's spark -

Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.

The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam,
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,

And naught is heard on the lonely hill

But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katydid,

And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings Ever a note of wail and woe,

Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell :
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;
He has counted them all with click and stroke,
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,

And he has awakened the sentry elve

Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,

To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry;

Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell

('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell) — "Midnight comes, and all is well!

Hither, hither, wing your way!

'Tis the dawn of the fairy day.'