SONG. THE OWL. WHEN cats run home and light is come, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay: Alone and warming his five wits, SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME. THY tuwhits are lull'd I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat, So took echo with delight, So took echo with delight, That her voice untuneful grown, I would mock thy chaunt anew ; But I cannot mimick it ; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthen'd loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. I. WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow'd back with me, The forward-flowing tide of time ; RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. II. Anight my shallop, rustling thro' The low and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron-shadows in the blue: By garden porches on the brim, In sooth it was a goodly time, III. Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moon-lit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay 23 Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, And weary with a finger's touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; Until the breaking of the light, Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel. |