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CAPRICCIETTO.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

ON the breeze-blown bough of a mountain tree,

Breathing the air of the sky and sea,

Fluttered a little bird.

And he sang at the sunbeams with twittering glee,

While only the rivulet heard.

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But a Djin came down with a gloaming shroud, -

Breathless the leaflets hung and bowed,

Chilled by his mantle dun, -

And the weird witch-dance of the wraiths of cloud

Enchanted the rays of the sun.

The storm is o'er; the tempest-folk

Have shot their shafts; the ravens croak,

Follow the brook to sea, -

But the bird is perched on the riven oak,

And carols there merrily.

S.

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