The storm was raging still. The shutter swung, Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind, And all without went on,――as aye it will, Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. The fire beneath the crucible was out. The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them, and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master’s will. And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire,――a sun-bent eagle stricken. From his high soaring, down,――an instrument Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,―― A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. * * * * * THE BELFRY PIGEON. ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well, In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air. I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet; And I often watch him as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last. ’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There’s a human look in its swelling breast. And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, Chime of the hour or funeral knell, The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with “nine at night,” When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet, unstirred, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast; Then drops again, with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee! With wings to fly to wood and glen, Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street; But, unlike me, when day is o’er, Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar; Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.