There came into many a burgher’s pate
    A text which says that heaven’s gate
Opens to the rich at as easy rate
    As the needle’s eye takes the camel in! 
The mayor sent east, west, north, and south
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him. 
But soon they saw ’twas a lost endeavor,
And piper and dancers were gone forever.

XIV.

And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children’s last retreat,
They called it the Pied Piper’s Street—­
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
And opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.

Robert Browning.

Group of lyrics.

PIPPA passes.

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in his heaven—­
All’s right with the world.

Robert Browning.

The snowdrop.

Many, many welcomes
February fair-maid,
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes
February fair-maid!

Alfred Tennyson.

THE THROSTLE.

I.

“Summer is coming, summer is coming. 
    I know it, I know it, I know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,”
    Yes, my wild little Poet.

II.

Sing the new year in under the blue. 
    Last year you sang it as gladly. 
“New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new
    That you should carol so madly?

III.

“Love again, song again, nest again, young again,”
    Never a prophet so crazy! 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
    See, there is hardly a daisy.

IV.

“Here again, here, here, here, happy year
    O warble unchidden, unbidden! 
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,
    And all the winters are hidden.

ALFRED TENNYSON

ONE MORNING, OH!  SO EARLY!

I.