for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished.

IX.

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
"Go," cried the Mayor, "get long poles,
Poke out the nests, and block up the holes.
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats." When suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market place,
With, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders."
A thousand guilders; the Mayor looked blue
And so did the Corporation, too.

X.

"Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,
"Our business was done at the river brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
A thousand guilders? Come, take fifty."
The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
"No trifling. Folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion."

XI.

Once more he stepped into the street
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling,
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a barnyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping ran merrily after
The wonderful music—with shouting and laughter.

XII.

When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed;
And the piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last
The door in the mountain side shut fast.
Alas, alas for Hamelin!

XIII.

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.

One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,
All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease;
'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!"
    And the lark sang, "Give us glory!"
    And the dove said, "Give us peace!"

II.

Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,
To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove;
When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!"
    When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!"
    She made answer, "Give us love!"

III.

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved;
Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase,
And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory,
    Give for all our life's dear story,
    Give us love, and give us peace!"

JEAN INGELOW.

FREEDOM.

1. No quality of Art has been more powerful in its influence on public mind; none is more frequently the subject of popular praise, or the end of vulgar effort, than what we call "Freedom." It is necessary to determine the justice or injustice of this popular praise.

2. Try to draw a circle with the "free" hand, and with a single line. You cannot do it if your hand trembles, nor if it hesitates, nor if it is unmanageable, nor if it is in the common sense of the word "free." So far from being free, it must be under a control as absolute and accurate as if it were fastened to an inflexible bar of steel. And yet it must move, under this necessary control, with perfect, untormented serenity of ease.

3. I believe we can nowhere find a better type of a perfectly free creature than in the common house-fly. Nor free only, but brave; and irreverent to a degree which I think no human republican could by any philosophy exalt himself to. There is no courtesy in him; he does not care whether it is king or clown whom he teases; and in every step of his swift mechanical march, and in every pause of his resolute observation, there is one and the same expression of perfect egotism, perfect independence and self-confidence, and conviction of the world's having been made for flies.

4. Strike at him with your hand, and to him, the mechanical fact and external aspect of the matter is, what to you it would be if an acre of red clay, ten feet thick, tore itself up from the ground in one massive field, hovered over you in the air for a second, and came crashing down with an aim. That is the