A pain articulate so long
In penance of some mouldered crime,
Whose ghost still flies the furies’ thong
Down the waste solitudes of time;

* * * * *

Phoebe! is all it has to say
In plaintive cadence o’er and o’er,
Like children that have lost their way
And know their names, but nothing more.

Is it in type, since Nature’s lyre
Vibrates to every note in man,
Of that insatiable desire
Meant to be so, since life began?

    I, in strange lands at gray of dawn,
    Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint
    Through memory’s chambers deep withdrawn
    Renew its iterations faint.

    So nigh! yet from remotest years
    It seems to draw its magic, rife
    With longings unappeased, and tears
    Drawn from the very source of life.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL:  in Scribner.

* * * * *

TO THE STORK.

    Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing
      Thy flight from the far-away! 
    Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,
      Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

    Descend, O Stork! descend
      Upon our roof to rest;
    In our ash-tree, O my friend,
      My darling, make thy nest.

    To thee, O Stork, I complain,
      O Stork, to thee I impart
    The thousand sorrows, the pain
      And aching of my heart.

    When thou away didst go,
      Away from this tree of ours,
    The withering winds did blow,
      And dried up all the flowers.

    Dark grew the brilliant sky,
      Cloudy and dark and drear;
    They were breaking the snow on high,
      And winter was drawing near.

    From Varaca’s rocky wall,
      From the rock of Varaca unrolled,
    The snow came and covered all,
      And the green meadow was cold.

    O Stork, our garden with snow
      Was hidden away and lost,
    And the rose-trees that in it grow
      Were withered by snow and frost.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE STORKS OF DELFT.

The tradition of the storks at Delft (Holland), is, however, still alive, and no traveller writes about the city without remembering them.

The fact occurred at the time of the great fire which ruined almost all the city.  There were in Delft innumerable storks’ nests.  It must be understood that the stork is the favorite bird of Holland; the bird of good fortune, like the swallow; welcome to all, because it makes war upon toads and frogs; that the peasants plant poles with circular floor of wood on top to attract them to make their nests, and that in some towns they may be seen walking in the streets.  At Delft they were in great numbers.  When the fire broke out, which was on the 3d May, the young storks were fledged, but could not yet fly.  Seeing the fire approach, the parent storks attempted to carry their young out of danger; but they were too heavy; and, after having tried all sorts of desperate efforts, the poor birds were forced to give it up.