NO SONGS IN WINTER.
BY T. B. ALDRICH.
I
The robin and the oriole,
The linnet and the wren--
When shall I see their fairyships,
And hear their songs again?
II.
The wind among the poplar trees,
At midnight, makes its moan;
The slim red cardinal flowers are dead,
And all sweet things are flown!
III.
A great white face looks down from heaven,
The great white face of Snow;
I cannot sing or morn or even,
The demon haunts me so!
IV.
It strikes me dumb, it freezes me,
I sing a broken strain--
Wait till the robins and the wrens
And the linnets come again!
THE BENI-ISRAEL.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Crammed--lobbies, galleries, boxes, floor;
Heads piled on heads at every door.
The actors were a painted group,
Of statue shapes, a "model" troupe,
With figures not severely Greek,
And drapery more or less antique;
The play, if one might call it so,
A Hebrew tale, in silent show.
And with the throng the pageant drew
There mingled Hebrews, not a few,
Coarse, swarthy, bearded--at their side
Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed.
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