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 Ignoble, yet quite worthy of the name Of Fill-pot Curran,) all proclaim the race Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly, When their step-mother country casts them off. Here with a creaking barrow, piled with tools Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by A man of different stamp. His well-trained limbs Move with a certain grace and readiness, Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying. Rapid his tread, yet firm; his scheming brain Teems with broad plans, and hopes of future wealth, And time and life move all too slow for him. Will he industrious gains and home renounce To grow more quickly rich in lands unblest? Hear'st thou that gleeful shout? Who opes the gate, The neatly painted gate, and runs before With noisy joy? Now from the trellised door Toddles another bright-haired boy. And now Captive they lead the father; strong their grasp; He cannot break away. Dreamily quiet The dewy twilight of a summer eve. Tired mortals lounge at casement or at door, While deepening shadows gather round. No lamp Save in yon shop, whose sable minister His evening customers attends. Anon, With squeaking bucket on his arm, emerges The errand-boy, slow marching to the tune Of "Uncle Ned" or "Norma," whistled shrill. Hark! heard you not against the window-pane The dash of horny skull in mad career, And a loud buzz of terror? He'll be in, This horrid beetle; yes,--and in my hair! Close all the blinds; 't is dismal, but 't is safe. Listen! Methought I heard delicious music, Faint and afar. Pray, is the Boat-Club out?