THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.

In the little southern parlor of the house you may have

seen

With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward

At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its

right,

Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night!

Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came! What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame,

When the wondrous box was opened that had come

from over seas,

With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory

keys!

Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of

joy,

For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd

the boy,

Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal

way,

But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play."

For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm ;

She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and seen its brow grow calm,

In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills,

Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills.

So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to

please,

Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys.

Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew

dim,

As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper

Hymn."

Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy-red,

(Wedded since, and a widow,

years dead,)

something like ten

Hearing a gush of music such as none before,

Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door.

Just as the "Jubilate " in threaded whisper dies, "Open it! open it, lady!" the little maiden cries,

(For she thought 't was a singing creature caged in a

66

box she heard,)

Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!"

MIDSUMMER.

HERE! sweep

these foolish leaves away,

I will not crush my brains to-day!

Look! are the southern curtains drawn?

Fetch me a fan, and so begone!

Not that, the palm-trees rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef!

Its breath is heated; - I would swing

The broad gray plumes, the eagle's wing.

I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,

A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.

Rain me sweet odors on the air,

And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise

Flat out before my sleepy eyes.

The pulse that flutters faint and low When Summer's seething breezes blow?

O Nature! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest,
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green !

So, curtained by a singing pine,

Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine, Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay

In sweeter music dies away.