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Thus, 0 Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his

careless lay;

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the

soil, The nobility of labour, the long pedigree of toil.

THE OPEN WINDOW,

The old house by the lindens

Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway

The light and shadow played.

I saw the nursery window

Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children

They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house-dog

Was standing by the door ;
He looked for his little playmates

Who would return no more.

They walked not under the lindens,

They played not in the hall ;
But shadow and silence and sadness

Were hanging over all.

The birds sung in the branches,

With sweet familiar tone;
But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me

He could not understand
Why closer in mine,-ah, closer !

I pressed his warm soft hand!

The charming touch in the last stanza has a pathos peculiar to Professor Longfellow. The next poem is also one which, if printed anonymously, we should I think be ready to assign to the right author.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux : Toujours-jamais ! Jamais-toujours !--JACQUES

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BRIDAINE.

Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient time-piece says to all :

“Forever-never !

Never--forever !"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass :

“ Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
As if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe :

“ Forever--never !

Never-forever !"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board ;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning time-piece never ceased:

“Forever-never !
Never--forever!"

There groups of merry children played ;
There youths and maidens, dreaming, strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime
And affluence of love and time !
Even as a miser counts his gold
Those hours the ancient time-piece told:

“ Forever-never !

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding-night!
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow!
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair :

« Forever-never !

Never-forever !"

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask with throbs of pain,
Ah! when shall they all meet again
As in the days long since gone by?
The ancient time-piece makes reply !

“Forever--never!

Never--forever!"

Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain and care,
And death and time shall disappear !
Forever there, but never here !
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly:

“Forever-never !
Never-forever!"

TWILIGHT.

The twilight is sad and cloudy,

The wind blows wild and free, And, like the wings of sea-birds,

Flash the wild caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman's cottage

There shines a ruddier light, And a little face at the window

Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window,

As if those childish eyes
Were looking into the darkness,
To see some form arise.

And a woman's waving shadow

Is passing to and fro,
Now rising to the ceiling,

Now bowing and bending low,

What tale do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind bleak and wild,
As they beat at the crazy casement,

Tell to that little child ?

And why do the roaring ocean

the night-wind wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother,

Drive the colour from her cheek?

RESIGNATION,

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howso'er defended,

But has one vacant chair !

The air is full of farewells to the dying

And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted !

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours

Amid these earthly damps,

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