THE OWL. 



In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, 



The spectral owl doth dwell ; 

 Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, 



But at dusk he's abroad and well ! 

 Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him ; 



Al? mock him outright by day ; 

 But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, 



The boldest will shrink away ! 



O! when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, 

 Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl ) 



And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, 



And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; 

 And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, 



She awaiteth her ghastly groom. 

 Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, 



As she waits in her tree so still, 

 But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, 



She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 



O ! when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, 

 Then, then, is the joy of the Horned Owl ! 



Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight ! 



The owl hath his share of good — 

 If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, 



He is lord in the dark greenwood ! 

 Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, 



They are each unto each a pride; 

 Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate 



Hath rent them from all beside ! 



So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, 

 Sing, Ho! for the reign of the Horned Owl ! 



We know not alway 



Who are kings by day, 

 But the King of the Night is the bold Brown Owl ! 



Bryan W. Procter 



(Barry Cornwall. ' 



