XX.

"Or, baby, wilt thou think it fitter To be eloquent and wise, One upon whose lips the air Turns to solemn verities For men to breathe anew, and win A deeper-seated life within? Wilt be a philosopher, By whose voice the earth and skies Shall speak to the unborn? Or a poet, broadly spreading The golden immortalities Of thy soul on natures lorn And poor of such, them all to guard From their decay,--beneath thy treading, Earth's flowers recovering hues of Eden,-- And stars, drawn downward by thy looks, To shine ascendant in thy books?"

The tame hawk in the castle-yard, How it screams to the lightning, with its wet Jagged plumes overhanging the parapet! And at the lady's door the hound Scratches with a crying sound.