I LOOKED one night, and there Semiramis, With all her mourning doves about her head,

Sat rocking on an ancient road of Hell,
Withered and eyeless, chanting to the moon
Snatches of song they sang to her of old
Upon the lighted roofs of Nineveh.
And then her voice rang out with rattling
laugh:

"The bugles! they are crying back again-
Bugles that broke the nights of Babylon,
And then went crying on through Nineveh.
Stand back, ye trembling messengers of ill!
Women, let go my hair: I am the Queen,

I felt the Mystery the Muses fear;

III

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the blue-birds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,

Where water flows, where green grass grows,

Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

And, best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.

How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing In days so sweet with music's balm !

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,

I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:

The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,

And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;

New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,

I fain would hear, before I go, the woodnotes of the veery.

ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN
FAIR Roslin Chapel, how divine
The art that reared thy costly shrine !
Thy carven columns must have grown
By magic, like a dream in stone.

Yet not within thy storied wall
Would I in adoration fall,
So gladly as within the glen
That leads to lovely Hawthornden:

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green
And vine-clad pillars, while between
The Esk runs murmuring on its way,
In living music, night and day.

Within the temple of this wood
The martyrs of the covenant stood,
And rolled the psalm, and poured the
prayer,

From Nature's solemn altar-stair.

THE LILY OF YORROW DEEP in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;

Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odor o'erflowing;

Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing;

Sweet are the primroses pale, and the violets after a shower; Sweet are the borders of pinks, and the blossoming grapes on the bower: