And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered,
  With tiny footprints fret the dusty square,
  And huddling strive to elude relentless fate. 
  And hark! with snuffling grunt, and now and then
  A squeak, a squad of long-nosed gentry run
  The gutters to explore, with comic jerk
  Of the investigating snout, and wink
  At passer-by, and saucy, lounging gait,
  And independent, lash-defying course. 
  And now the baker, with his steaming load,
  Hums like the humble-bee from door to door,
  And thoughts of breakfast rise; and harmonies
  Domestic, song of kettle, and hissing urn,
  Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet,
  Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork,
  Bring to a close the Melodies of Morn.

THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE.

  The Melodies of Morning late I sang. 
  Recall we now those Melodies of Even
  Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o’erpast;
  Full of the theme, O Phoebus, hear me sing. 
  What time thy golden car draws near its goal,—­
  Mount Auburn’s pillared summit,—­chorus loud
  Of mud-born songsters fills the dewy air. 
  Hark! in yon shallow pool, what melody
  Is poured from swelling throats, liquid and bubbling,
  As if the plaintive notes thrilled struggling through
  The stagnant waters and the waving reeds. 
  Monotonous the melancholy strain,
  Save when the bull-frog, from some slimy depth
  Profound, sends up his deep “Poo-toob!” “Poo-toob!”
  Like a staccato note of double bass
  Marking the cadence.  The unwearied crickets
  Fill up the harmony; and the whippoorwill
  His mournful solo sings among the willows. 
  The tree-toad’s pleasant trilling croak proclaims
  A coming rain; a welcome evil, sure,
  When streets are one long ash-heap, and the flowers
  Fainting or crisp in sun-baked borders stand. 
  Mount Auburn’s gate is closed.  The latest ’bus
  Down Brattle Street goes rumbling.  Laborers
  Hie home, by twos and threes; homeliest phizzes,
  Voices high-pitched, and tongues with telltale burr-r-r-r,
  The short-stemmed pipe, diffusing odors vile,
  Garments of comic and misfitting make,
  And steps which tend to Curran’s door, (a man
  Ignoble, yet quite worthy of the name
  Of Fill-pot Curran,) all proclaim the race
  Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly,
  When their step-mother country casts them off. 
  Here with a creaking barrow, piled with tools
  Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by
  A man of different stamp.  His well-trained limbs
  Move with a certain grace and readiness,
  Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying. 
  Rapid his tread, yet firm; his scheming brain
  Teems with broad plans, and hopes of future wealth,
  And time and life move all too slow for him. 
  Will he industrious gains and home renounce
  To grow more quickly rich in lands unblest?