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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 farm-yard 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.

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The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by-
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters !
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.

• He never can cross that mighty top !
He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!'
When lo! as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,

22C

225

Z

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And wlien all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say all ? No! one was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say, -

* It's dull in our town since my playmates left;
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings;
And horses were born with eagle's wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped, and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!'

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Alas, alas for Hamelin !

There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says, that Heaven's Gate

Opcs to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a 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,

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If he'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly,
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,

• And so long after what happened here
On the twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six :'.
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street,
Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor,
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But 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.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress,
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison,
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why they don't understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers

300 Of scores out with all men- - especially pipers : And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

Robert Browning:

CCLX

AUTUMN WOODS.

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IO

Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

Have put their glory on.

The mountains, that infold
In their wide sweep the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple' and gold,

Tliat guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet south-west at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-

The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet-
So grateful, when the noon of summer made

The valleys sick with heat?

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20

Let in through all the trees

25 Come the strange rays: the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breeze

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, 30 Shines with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

But ’neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

35 Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,

And leave thee wild and sad ?

Ah! 'twere a lot too blest,
For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west

To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife

45
That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.

William Cullen Bryant.

40

CCLXI

LAPSE.

A heavenly Night!-- methinks to me
The soul of other times returns;
Sweet as the scents the orange-tree
Drops in the wind-flower's scarlet urns,
When sunset, like a city, burns
Across the glassy midland sea.

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