Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen;
I am king of the household, and thou art its

queen.

Is is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest

rest,

That makes of us twain but one soul in one

breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL

DOOR.

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN.

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.

In his mantle, wound about him,

As their robes the sowers wind, –

Bore he swallows and their fledglings,

Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and childlike,

High in wind and tempest wild ; O, were I like him exalted,

I would be like him, a child!

And my songs-green leaves and blossoms—
To the doors of heaven would bear,
Calling, even in storm and tempest,

Round me still these birds of air.

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL.

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN.

On the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,

Sees he how with zealous care

At the ruthless nail of iron

A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease;

From the cross 't would free the Saviour,
Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : "Blest be thou of all the good!

Bear, as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy rood!”

And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,

In the groves of pine it singeth

Songs, like legends, strange to hear.