Littell's Living Age/Volume 162/Issue 2094/Juventus Mundi

a tale a fairy sent us Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus. When Love and all the world was young, And birds conversed as well as sung; And men still faced this fair creation With humor, heart, imagination. Who come hither from Morocco Every spring on the Sirocco. In russet she, and he in yellow, Singing ever clear and mellow, "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?" Phyllophneustes wise folk call them, But don't know what did befall them, Why they ever thought of coming All that way to hear gnats humming, Why they built not nests but houses, Like the humble-bees and mousies. Nor how little birds got wings, Nor what 'tis the small cock sings — How should they know — stupid fogies? They daren't even believe in bogies. Once they were a girl and boy, Each the other's life and joy. He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, Only they were brown, not snowy, Till an Arab found them playing Far beyond the Atlas straying, Tied the helpless things together, Drove them in the burning weather, In his slave-gang many a league, Till they dropped from wild fatigue. Up he caught his whip of hide, Lashed each soft brown back and side Till their little brains were burst With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst. Over her the poor boy lay, Tried to keep the blows away, Till they stiffened into clay, And the ruffian rode away. Swooping o'er the tainted ground, Carrion vultures gathered round, And the gaunt hyenas ran Tracking up the caravan. But — Ah, wonder! that was gone Which they meant to feast upon. And, for each, a yellow wren, One a cock, and one a hen, Sweetly warbling, flitted forth O'er the desert toward the north. But a shade of bygone sorrow, Like a dream upon the morrow, Round his tiny brainlet clinging, Sets the wee cock ever singing, "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?" Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped, But their evening meal was stopped. And the gaunt hyenas foul, Sat down on their tails to howl. Northward towards the cool spring weather, Those two wrens fled on together, On to England o'er the sea Where all folks alike are free. There they built a cabin, wattled Like the huts where first they prattled, Hatched and fed, as safe as may be, Many a tiny feathered baby. But in autumn south they go Past the Straits, and Atlas' snow, Over desert, over mountain, To the palms beside the fountain, Where, when once they lived before, he Told her first the old, old story. "What do the doves say? Curuk-Coo, You love me and I love you."