Somewhere in that uncertain "long ago,"

Whose dim and vague chronology is all

That elfin tales or nursery fables know,

Rose a rare spirit,—keen, and quick, and quaint,—

Whom by the title, whether fact or feint,

Mythic or real, Mother Goose we call.

Of Momus and Minerva sprang the birth

That gave the laughing oracle to earth:

A brimming bowl she bears, that, frothing

high

With sparkling nonsense, seemeth non-

sense all;

Till, the bright, floating syllabub blown by,

Lo, in its ruby splendor doth upshine

The crimson radiance of Olympian wine

By Pallas poured, in Jove's own banquet-

hall.

The world was but a baby when she came;

So to her songs it listened, and her name

Grew to a word of power, her voice a spell

With charm to soothe its infant wearying

well.

But, in a later and maturer age,

Developed to a dignity more sage,

Having its Shakspeares and its Words-

worths now,

Its Southeys and its Tennysons, to wear

A halo on the high and lordly brow,

Or poet-laurels in the waving hair;

Its Lowells, Whittiers, Longfellows, to sing

Ballads of beauty, like the notes of spring,

The wise and prudent ones to nursery use

Leave the dear lyrics of old Mother Goose.

Wisdom of babes,—the nursery Shak-

speare stilly—

Cackles she ever with the same good-will:

Uttering deep counsels in a foolish guise,

That come as warnings, even to the wise;

As when, of old, the martial city slept,

Unconscious of the wily foe that crept

Under the midnight, till the alarm was heard

Out from the mouth of Rome's plebeian

bird.

Full many a rare and subtile thing hath

she,

Undreamed of in the world's philosophy:

Toss-balls for children hath she humbly

rolled,

That shining jewels secretly enfold;

Sibylline leaves she casteth on the air,

Twisted in fool's-caps, blown unheeded by,

That, in their lines grotesque, albeit, bear

Words of grave truth, and signal prophecy;

And lurking satire, whose sharp lashes hit

A world of follies with their homely writ;

With here and there a roughly uttered hint,

That makes you wonder at the beauty

in't;

As if, along the wayside's dusty edge,

A hot-house flower had blossomed in a

hedge.

So, like brave Layard in old Nineveh,

Among the memories of ancient song,

As curious relics, I would fain bestir;

And gather, if it might be, into strong

And shapely show, some wealth of its

lost lore;

Fragments of Truth's own architecture,

strewed

In forms disjointed, whimsical, and rude,

That yet, to simpler vision, grandly stood

Complete, beneath the golden light of