I go, but I return. The fiery furnace has no horrors for me. Mine is a race of martyrs. I can trace Ancestors by the score who laid their heads Upon the axman's block. It is a little way We have. Why should I care to flaunt My feathered beauty on a bare November bough? I shall appear again in a far richer dressing. In years to come it will be said of me, As of my ancestors, that nothing in my life Shed so much glory as the leaving of it. Full many a little child that now Is prattling at its grandma's knee shall say In future years that of all days it holds In the most sacred memory the one When it officiated at The funeral of this Turk. And now Lest some one shall say I knew not how to die, Let the ax fall. BIRDS. The Bird is little more than a drift of the air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying, like a blown flame; it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it--_is_ the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself. Also, into the throat of the Bird is given the voice of the air. All that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit together in its song. As we may imagine the wild form of the cloud closed into the perfect form of the Bird's wings, so the wild voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice; unwearied, rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, interpreting all intense passion through the soft spring nights, bursting into acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like little winds that only make the Cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals of the Wild Rose. Also, upon the plumes of the Bird are put the colors of the air; on these the gold of the cloud, that cannot be gathered by any covetousness; the rubies of the clouds, the vermilion of the cloud-bar, and the flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, and its shadow, and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky--all these, seized by the creating spirit, and woven into films and threads of plume; with wave on wave following and fading along breast and throat and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of the foam and the sifting of the sea-sand; even the white down of the cloud seeming to flutter up between the stronger plumes, seen, but too soft for touch.--RUSKIN. BIRDS IN STORMS.