ad of clumsy feet
Are hurrying on:--but now, with instinct sure,
Madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road
That leads to Brighton and to death. They charge
Up Brattle Street. Screaming the maiden flies,
Nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil, upborne
On sportive breeze, and sailing far away.
And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered,
With tiny footprints fret the dusty square,
And huddling strive to elude relentless fate.
And hark! with snuffling grunt, and now and then
A squeak, a squad of long-nosed gentry run
The gutters to explore, with comic jerk
Of the investigating snout, and wink
At passer-by, and saucy, lounging gait,
And independent, lash-defying course.
And now the baker, with his steaming load,
Hums like the humble-bee from door to door,
And thoughts of breakfast rise; and harmonies
Domestic, song of kettle, and hissing urn,
Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet,
Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork,
Bring to a close the Melodies of Morn.

THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE.

The Melodies of Morning late I sang.
Recall we now those Melodies of Even
Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o'erpast;
Full of the theme, O Phoebus, hear me sing.
What time thy golden car draws near its goal,--
Mount Auburn's pillared summit,--chorus loud
Of mud-born songsters fills the dewy air.
Hark! in yon shallow pool, what melody
Is poured from swelling throats, liquid and bubbling,
As if the plaintive notes thrilled struggling through
The stagnant waters and the waving reeds.
Monotonous the melancholy strain,
Save when the bull-frog, from some slimy depth
Profound, sends up his deep "Poo-toob!" "Poo-toob!"
Like a staccato note of double bass
Marking the cadence. The unwearied crickets
Fill up the harmony; and the whippoorwill
His mournful solo sings among the willows.
The tree-toad's pleasant trilling croak proclaims
A coming rain; a welcome evil, sure,
When streets are one long ash-heap, and the flowers
Fainting or crisp in sun-baked borders stand.
Mount Auburn's gate is closed. The latest 'bus
Down Brattle Street goes rumbling. Laborers
Hie home, by twos and threes; homeliest phizzes,
Voices high-pitched, and tongues with telltale burr-r-r-r,
The short-stemmed pipe, diffusing odors vile,
Garments of comic and misfitting make,
And steps which tend to Curran's door, (a man
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