Forth from out the western door

Came the abbot; him before

Went a brother with his crook,

And a boy a bell who rung

And a silver censer swung,

Whilst another bore the book.

Then the abbot raised his hand,
Looking to the swallow band,
Saying, 'Ite, missa est!
Christian birds, depart in peace,
As your cares of summer cease,
Swallows, enter on your rest.

'Now the winter snow must fall, Wrapping earth as with a pall,

And the stormy winds arise.

Go to distant lands where glow Deathless suns, where falls not snow

From the ever azure skies.

'Go! dear heralds of the road,

To the sweet unknown abode

In the verdant Blessed Isles, Whither we shall speed some day, Leaving crumbling homes of clay

For the land where summer smiles.

'Go in peace! your hours have run ; Go, the day of work is done;

Go in peace, my sons!' he said. Then the swallows spread the wing, Making all the welkin ring

With their cry, and southward sped.

POOR ROBIN.

[MEFFRET, Hortulus Reginæ. Norimb. 1487.]

ROBIN the cobbler, blithe and gay,

Fiddled at night time, cobbled at day;

Busily worked till the curfew rang,

Then caught up his bow and fiddled and sang.

Robin lived under a marble stair

That led to a terrace broad and fair
Adorned with exotics bright and rare,

Where, every evening, taking the air,
A nobleman walked with brow depressed,
And within his bosom a sea of unrest;
Trembling now at the frown of the king,

Lest titles and honours should spread their wing;

Now at the fate of a suit at court,

Then at some insult to be out-fought;

But oh! for the cares unreckoned that rolled

From that plentiful source, the lust of gold.

The nobleman watched the declining sun,
Day with its business and cares was done ;
And now, for the vigorous sons of toil,
To the wearied spirits came glad recoil.
But for such as the nobleman came no rest
As the sun went down in the scarlet west;
For rest is none from ambition's strain,
None for the heart where pride holds reign,
None for the breast filled with greed of gain.
Then sudden he heard the tremulous string
Robin's sweet carol accompanying;
Unreckoned the hours that glided by,
As Robin sat twittering cheerily,

With the moon going up in the darkling sky.

'Now this is strange,' the nobleman said, 'That a poor man labouring for his bread, With a crust to eat, and a strawstrewn bed, Should be so jubilant, free from sorrow, Without a care or thought of the morrow. The secret of having light heart, if found, Cheap would I count at a thousand pound.'

When Robin was out at a job one day,
The nobleman hid a gold bag in the hay

Of the cobbler's pillow, and hasted away.
That night, as its wont, the curfew rang,
But Robin the cobbler nor fiddled nor sang,
For in turning his pillow his glad eyes fell
On the purse with a wonder unspeakable.

Now silent and musing he sat till late,
His heart oppressed with a leaden weight,
His mind revolving where to conceal

The treasure, where none might find and steal.
Cautiously locking and bolting his door,
He buried the purse underneath the floor,
Then over it strewed his litter of straw.
Little he slept, waking often in fear,
Imagining burglars drawing near,

Slumber unbroken seemed fled for e'er.

Night after night the nobleman strode

The terrace above poor Robin's abode ;
But hushed was the voice of the cobbler now,
And laid aside were the fiddle and bow.

Then the nobleman stood before Robin's stall, And said, 'By accident I let fall

A purse of gold, through a chink in the wall,