CROWS.

They stream across the fading western sky

A sable cloud, far o'er the lonely leas;

Now parting into scattered companies,

Now closing up the broken ranks, still high

And higher yet they mount, while, carelessly,

Trail slow behind, athwart the moving trees

A lingering few,‘ round whom the evening breeze

Plays with sad whispered murmurs as they fly.

A lonely figure, ghostly in the dim

And darkening twilight, lingers in the shade

Of bending willows: “Surely God has laid

His curse on me,” he moans, “my strength of limb

And old heart-courage fail me, and I flee

Bowed with fell terror at this augury.”