Once ye were happy, once by many a shore, Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray, Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay Floating at rest; but that was long of yore. He was too good for earthly men; he bore Their bitter deeds for many a patient day, And then at last he took his unseen way. He was your friend, and ye might rest no more: And now, though many hundred altering years Have passed, among the desolate northern meres Still must ye search and wander querulously, Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light With wierd entreaties, and in agony With awful laughter pierce the lonely night. MARCH. Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrows The bells are ringing loud and strangely near, The shout of children dins upon mine ear Shrilly, and like a flight of silvery arrows Showers the sweet gossip of the British sparrows, Gathered in noisy knots of one or two, To joke and chatter just as mortals do Over the days long tale of joys and sorrows; Talk before bed-time of bold deeds together Of thefts and fights, of hard-times and the weather, Till sleep disarm them, to each little brain Bringing tucked wings and many a blissful dream, Visions of wind and sun, of field and stream, And busy barn-yards with their scattered grain. SOLITUDE. How still it is here in the woods. The trees Stand motionless, as if they did not dare To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze. Even this little brook, that runs at ease, Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed, Seems but to deepen with its curling thread Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences. Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker Startles the stillness from its fixèd mood With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear The dreamy white-throat from some far off tree Pipe slowly on the listening solitude His five pure notes succeeding pensively. AUTUMN MAPLES. The thoughts of all the maples who shall name, When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey? Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay, Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name, Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame; And some with softer woe that day by day, So sweet and brief, should go the westward way, Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame, That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous rose; Others for wrath have turned a rusty red, And some that knew not either grief or dread, Ere the old year should find its iron close, Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold, Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold. THE DOG.