Is it in type, since Nature's lyre Meant to be so, since life began? I, in strange lands at gray of dawn, So nigh! yet from remotest years JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: in Scribner. TO THE STORK. Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing Descend, O Stork! descend Upon our roof to rest; To thee, O Stork, I complain, When thou away didst go, Away from this tree of ours, Dark grew the brilliant sky, Cloudy and dark and drear; They were breaking the snow on high, From Varaca's rocky wall, From the rock of Varaca unrolled, And the green meadow was cold. O Stork, our garden with snow H. W. LONG FELLOW. 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. They might have saved themselves and have abandoned the little ones to their fate, as human creatures often do under similar circumstances. But they stayed upon their nests, gathered their little ones about them, covered them with their wings, as if to retard, as long as possible, the fatal moment, and so awaited death, in that loving and noble attitude. And who shall say if, in the horrible dismay and flight from the flames, that example of self-sacrifice, that voluntary maternal martyrdom, may not have given strength and courage to some weak soul who was about to abandon those who had need of him. DE AMICIS' Holland. THE PHEASANT. See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold! POPE. THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. Silent are all the sounds of day; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets. Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green morass, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. Sing him the mystical song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that enfold you; Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places; And the splendor of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better. H. W. LONGFellow. WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID. Vogelweid the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg's minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long." Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted Day by day, o'er tower and turret, On the tree whose heavy branches On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the crossbars of each window, |