Thence comes the glory of thy song,
And therefore doth it fall,
As falls the radiance of a star,
Gladdening and blessing all!
Oh! wondrous are the living lays
That human lips have breathed,
And deep the music men have won
From lyres with laurel wreathed:
But there's a spell on lip and lyre,
Sweet though their tones may be--
Some jarring note, some tuneless string,
Aye mars the melody.
The strings sleep 'neath too weak a touch,
Or break, 'neath one too strong;
Or we forget the master-chord
That should rule all our song.
When shall our spirit learn again
The lay once to it given?
When shall we rise, like thee, sweet bird!
And, singing, soar to heaven?
FANNY FARMER.
DOG-SELLING EXTRAORDINARY.
Two ladies, friends of a near relative of my own, from whom I received
an account of the circumstance, were walking in Regent Street, and
were accosted by a man who requested them to buy a beautiful little
dog, covered with long, white hair, which he carried in his arms. Such
things are not uncommon in that part of London, and the ladies passed
on without heeding him.
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