Year after year beheld the silent toil
      That spread his lustrous coil;
      Still, as the spiral grew,
    He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,
    Stole with soft steps its shining archway through,
      Built up its idle door,
    Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

    Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
      Child of the wandering sea,
      Cast from her lap, forlorn! 
    From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
    Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 
      While on mine ear it rings,
    Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—­

    “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
      As the swift seasons roll! 
      Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
    Let each temple, nobler than the last,
    Shut thee from heaven within a dome more vast,
      Till thou at length art free,
    Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unwresting sea!”

O. W. HOLMES.

* * * * *

HIAWATHA’S BROTHERS.

    When he heard the owls at midnight,
    Hooting, laughing in the forest,
    “What is that?” he cried in terror;
    “What is that?” he said, “Nokomis?”
    And the good Nokomis answered: 
    “That is but the owl and owlet,
    Talking in their native language,
    Talking, scolding at each other.” 
      Then the little Hiawatha
    Learned of every bird its language,
    Learned their names and all their secrets,
    How they built their nests in Summer,
    Where they hid themselves in Winter,
    Talked with them whene’er he met them,
    Called them “Hiawatha’s Chickens.” 
      Of all beasts he learned the language,
    Learned their names and all their secrets,
    How the beavers built their lodges,
    Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
    How the reindeer ran so swiftly,
    Why the rabbit was so timid,
    Talked with them whene’er he met them,
    Called them “Hiawatha’s Brothers.” 
      Then Iagoo, the great boaster,
    He the marvellous story-teller,
    He the traveller and the talker,
    He the friend of old Nokomis,
    Made a bow for Hiawatha;
    From a branch of ash he made it,
    From an oak-bough made the arrows,
    Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,
    And the cord he made of deer-skin. 
      Then he said to Hiawatha: 
    “Go, my son, into the forest,
    Where the red deer herd together,
    Kill for us a famous roebuck,
    Kill for us a deer with antlers!”
      Forth into the forest straightway
    All alone walked Hiawatha
    Proudly, with his bow and arrows;
    And the birds sang ruffed him, o’er him,
    “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
    Sang the robin, the Opechee,
    Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,