A swirl of silken trains and scarves,-
Yes! laughter from the throne-
A speck of fire that lit the place,
A shot, and then a groan.

A thousand faces turned to stare

Through fumes that round them cling,

When loud a voice cries-"Bar the doorsThe pale face shot the King!"

THE wind brings now and then a gust
Of harvest mirth into the town,
When sudden clouds of whitening dust
Come sweeping o'er the stubble brown :
The bees are silent in their hive,

The swallows sleep within their nest,
Careless of all the winds that strive

To quench the sun-flame in the west.

The flowers that cluster o'er the thatch
Are closed, but all the scent of noon
Creeps through the doors when lifted latch
Gives entrance to the light; the moon

Spreads silvering o'er the dial's face,

Where saints guard round the old church porch, Beside yon gabled market-place,

The sun has scarcely ceased to scorch.

The farmer counts the golden heaps
Of his new-gathered summer corn;
His honest heart in gladness leaps
As he froths up the drinking-horn;
And when the reapers shout together,

He brims each cup with barley juice,
And, merry as the harvest weather,
Will suffer none to make excuse.

The hunter, with a well-gloved finger,
Frets playfully his fluttering hawk;
And far behind the strong hounds linger,
While at his feet the mastiffs stalk.
"Good e'en" to all the market folk
Comes gladly from his laughing mouth;

The hooded girls his cheerful joke

Love, as the spring flowers do the south.

The children at the churchyard gate
On noisy games are all intent,
Nor raise their eyes, though by, in state,
A burgher to the council went;
But grief disturbs them now and then,

When screams the shrill voice of the dame :

They swear if they can once grow men,

They would not stir though father came.

The smith is toiling in his shed—

Bright shines the flame through rift and chinkThe fire upon the anvil red

Waves up but down again to sink; And firm, as if for life and death,

That sturdy arm smites hot and fast, And all the while the bellows' breath Fans up the roaring stithy blast.

The ceaseless sparkles star the room,

Bright horse-shoes glimmer from the roof,
And, Cyclops-like, through dark and gloom,
Wild heads bend round the charger's hoof.
The smith upon his hammer rests,
And listens to the tailor's news;
Strong-armed, with broad and brawny chest,
His cheeks rich tanned with motley hues.

The tailor leans upon the hatch,

His shuffling slippers on his feet,

His gossip voice by fits you catch

Between the hammer's ceaseless beat; His threaded needle in his hand,

His scissors peeping from his pouch,

A roll of patterns in his band,

The busy craftsman all avouch.

S

The miller by his mill-dam stands,

And listens to the burring wheel, Rubbing with glee his floury hands, For last night rose the price of meal. The snowy tide that rushes down

Floods with a silver stream his purse; He chinks his gold when poor men frown, And counts it when the townsmen curse.

Two lovers by the distant bridge

Watch the swift stream that wanders under, Where massy pier and greystone ridge

Cleave the clear-flowing tide asunder;
You hear the mill-throb now and then
In spite of all the buzz within,
The miller shouting to his men,
While the white roof is vibrating.

The landlord stands beneath his sign,
That far above him groans and creaks;

He's counting up the jugs of wine

Drunk for the last half-dozen weeks. Behind him stands the crafty groom, Stealing from willing maid a kiss; Cups rattle in the latticed room—

To landlord's ear the sound is bliss.