See how he throws his largess gold
Into the bending trees.
He doth the forest walls enfold
In purple tapestries.
He giveth all a majesty;
He holds in fiel the shore, the sea;
Oh! pr'ythee come and sing
A song, and sing it merrily
To him, our Scarlet King.
Past crypt and wayside canopy,
Beyond each bloarny throne,
Full fleetly speed his heralds free
To make his advent known.
His scarlet banners bend and blow;
Our scarlet vintages shall flow;
And pr'ythee with us sing,
That proud October all may know
And hail—"our Scarlet King."
HAROLD M. BOWMAN. Inlander.
~Bob White.~
At morn, when first the rosy gleam
Of rising sun proclaimed the day,
There reached me, thro' my last sweet dream,
This oft-repeated lay:
(Too sweet for cry.
Too brief for song,
'Twas borne along
The reddening sky)
Bob White!
Daylight, Bob White!
Daylight!
At eve, when first the fading glow
Of setting sun foretold the night,
The same sweet call came, soft and low,
Across the dying light:
(Too sweet for cry,
Too brief for song,
'Twas but a long,
Contented sigh)
Bob White!
Good Night, Bob White!
Good Night!
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. Nassau Literary Monthly.
~An Evening Song.~
O red, red clouds in the westering sky,
That are lit with a lamp of gold,
The hours are faint, they sleep, they die,
The stars are earthward rolled;
Make bright day's burial-place, make bright,
So it crimson-canopied be—
It dies, and Fancy out of the night
Comes down—comes down to me.
O red, red clouds with your glory gone,
That are ghostly shapes of gray.
My lady dreams by a moon-lit lawn,
Away from me—away;
Go down—go down from the sky, so the gleams
Of the moon shine over the sea,
And bring the thought of my lady's dreams
Over to me—to me.