POETRY.
THE SWALLOWS.
0 MOTHER, will the swallows never come P
Feel my cheek, 'tis hot and burning, And my heart is sick with yearning, But I'm always well as soon as swallows come.
They brought me in a primrose yesterday : And when primroses are blowing, Then I know that winter's going; And the swallows cannot then be far away.
Hark, my old thrush in the garden singing clear ! How I love his note to follow !
But the swallow, 0 the swallow, Bringing summer with him, summer, is more dear.
And the lambs' bleat ! Could I see them once again, With their innocent sweet faces, And their friskings, and their races!
Once I used—but now I cannot stir for pain.
Mother, lift me, all this side is growing numb : Oh, how dark the room is ! Fold me To your bosom, tighter hold me !
Or I shall be gone before the swallows come.
And the swallows came again across the wave ; And the sky was soft and tender, With a gleam of rainbow splendour, As they laid their little darling in the grave : And they often watch the swallows by her tomb ; And they strain to think, but straining Cannot still the heart's complaining, " She is better there where swallows never come."
And they carved the bird she loved upon her stone ; Joyous guest of summer darting Hither, thither, then departing In a night, to joys of other worlds unknown. A. G. B.
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