Far away, by the sea in the south, The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn; And all the swallows were gather'd there Flitting about in the fragrant air, And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue. Out of the depths of their soft rich throats Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said: "Musical thought in the mild air floats, Spring is coming and winter is dead! Come, O Swallows, and stir the air, For the buds are all bursting unaware, And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long To hear the sound of your low sweet song." Over the roofs of the white Algiers, Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, Flitted the swallows, and not one hears The call of the thrushes from far, from far; Sigh'd the thrushes; then, all at once, Broke out singing the old sweet tones, Singing the bridal of sap and shoot, The tree's slow life between root and fruit. But just when the dingles of April flowers Shine with the earliest daffodils, When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils,-- Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried, Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side, "Swallows, O Swallows, come back again To swoop and herald the April rain." And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air, And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart, And met in the broad white dreamy square; And the sad slave woman, who lifted up From the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup, Said to herself, with a weary sigh, "To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!" CVI. DAWN ANGELS. A. MARY F. ROBINSON.--1856- All night I watch'd, awake, for morning: At last the East grew all aflame, The birds for welcome sang, or warning, And with their singing morning came. Along the gold-green heavens drifted Pale wandering souls that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted, Had beat the bars of Heaven all night. These cluster'd round the Moon; but higher A troop of shining spirits went, Who were not made of wind or fire, But some divine dream-element. Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-color'd wings, A faint unusual music raining (Whose sound was Light) on earthly things. They sang, and as a mighty river Their voices wash'd the night away: From East to West ran one white shiver, And waxen strong their song was Day. CVII. LE ROI EST MORT. A. MARY F. ROBINSON.