Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,
She knew the droning pibroch,
She knew the Campbell's call:
'Hark! hear ye no MacGregor's,
The grandest o' them all!'

Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper's blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman's voice and man's;
'God be praised!-the march of Havelock!
The piping of the clans!'

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,
Stinging all the air to life.

But when the far-off dust-cloud
To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithesomely
The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow,
Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne.

O'er the cruel roll of war-drums

Rose that sweet and homelike strain;
And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper
And plaided mountaineer,-
To the cottage and the castle
The piper's song is dear.
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O'er mountain, glen, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music

The pipes at Lucknow played!

John Greenleaf Whittier

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest, when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night;

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen.
Or columbines in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged Year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I should that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

William Cullen Bryant

INDEX.

I saw you toss the kites on high. Stevenson.

At evening when the lamp is lit. Stevenson.
Behind him lay the gray Azores. Miller.
Blessings on thee, little man. Whittier.

Breaking waves dashed high. Hemans.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood. Emerson.

FIRST LINE INDEX

PAGE.

22

44

28

46

Scott.

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35

14

6

30

16

54

9

53

36

37

Camel's hump is an ugly lump. Kipling... . .

A child should always say what's true. Stevenson.

Down in a field, one day in June. Jewett..

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night. Gould.

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried. Taylor.

Good little boys should never say. Turner..

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. Shakespeare.

Hats off! Bennett....

Home of my heart, I sing to thee. Brent..

How do you like to go up in a swing. Stevenson.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me. Stevenson.

I keep six honest serving-men. Kipling.

I know the song that the bluebird is singing. Miller.

I once had a sweet little doll, dears. Kingsley.

I remember, I remember. Hood.

I saw three ships come sailing in..

I shot an arrow into the air. Longfellow..

I wandered lonely as a cloud. Wordsworth.

In winter I get up at night. Stevenson..

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20

3

23

45

7

27

36

8

Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Gray.
The lily has an air. Rossetti...

59

23

Listen, my children, and you shall hear. Longfellow..
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year.
Merrily swinging on brier and weed. Bryant...
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. Howe.
My country, 'tis of thee. Smith..

My fairest child, I have no song to give you. Kingsley.
My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky. Stevenson.
O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done. Whitman.

O Columbia! the gem of the ocean.

O little town of Bethlehem.

Shaw.

Brooks...

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray. Wordsworth..

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light. Key.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there. Browning.
Old Glory! say, who. Riley..

The owl and the pussy-cat went to sea.

Pipes of the misty moorlands. Whittier..
Piping down the valleys wild. Blake.

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3

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34

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47

50

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Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! Byron.

9

60

15

58

18

10

56

25

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping. Carroll.

The splendor falls on castle walls. Tennyson.

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