Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse
    Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse,
                Felt here secure? 
    Ah no! thou need’st not gold, thou happy one! 
    Thou know’st it not.  Of all God’s creatures, man
                Alone is poor.

    What was it, then? some mystic turn of thought,
    Caught under German eaves, and hither brought,
                Marring thine eye
    For the world’s loveliness, till thou art grown
    A sober thing that dost but mope and moan,
                Not knowing why?

    Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
    Since here I see thee working at thy task
                With wing and beak. 
    A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain,
    At which thou work’st, brave bird, with might and main,
                Nor more need’st seek.

    In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
    By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,
                And hast small care
    Whether an Eden or a desert be
    Thy home, so thou remain’st alive, and free
                To skim the air.

    God speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest
    With little ones all in good time be blest. 
                I love thee much;
    For well thou managest that life of thine,
    While I! oh, ask not what I do with mine! 
                Would I were such!

MRS. THOMAS CARLYLE.

* * * * *

THE SWALLOW, THE OWL, AND THE COCK’S SHRILL CLARION IN THE “ELEGY.”

    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
      The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,
    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
      And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

    Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
      And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
      And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
      The moping owl does to the moon complain
    Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
      Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
      Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
    Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
      The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

    The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
      The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
    The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
      No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

GRAY.

* * * * *

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR.

    Forms of saints and kings are standing
      The cathedral door above;
    Yet I saw but one among them
      Who hath soothed my soul with love.