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Thus, 0 Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,
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,
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery window
Wide open to the air;
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door ;
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall ;
Were hanging over all.
The birds sung in the branches,
With sweet familiar tone;
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me
He could not understand
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
Somewhat back from the village street
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
“ Forever--never !
In that mansion used to be
There groups of merry children played ;
“ Forever-never !
From that chamber, clothed in white,
« Forever-never !
All are scattered now and fled,
Never here, forever there,
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
And a woman's waving shadow
Is passing to and fro,
Now bowing and bending low,
What tale do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind bleak and wild,
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?
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
But has one vacant chair !
The air is full of farewells to the dying
And mournings for the dead;
Will not be comforted !
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapours
Amid these earthly damps,