There ponder'd, felt I,

If worms, snakes, loathsome grubs, may to sweet spiritual songs be turn'd,

If vermin so transposed, so used and bless'd may be,
Then may I trust in you, your fortunes, days, my country;
Who knows but these may be the lessons fit for you?
From these your future song may rise with joyous trills,
Destin'd to fill the world.

ITALIAN MUSIC IN DAKOTA.

["The Seventeenth

the finest Regimental Band I ever heard."]

THROUGH the soft evening air enwinding all,

Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds,
In dulcet streams, in flutes' and cornets' notes,

Electric, pensive, turbulent, artificial,

(Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before,
Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, related here,
Not to the city's fresco'd rooms, not to the audience of the opera
house,

Sounds, echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home,
Sonnambula's innocent love, trios with Norma's anguish,

And thy ecstatic chorus Poliuto ;)

Ray'd in the limpid yellow slanting sundown,
Music, Italian music in Dakota.

While Nature, sovereign of this gnarl'd realm,
Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses,
Acknowledging rapport however far remov'd,

(As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit,)
Listens well pleas'd.

WITH ALL THY GIFTS.

WITH all thy gifts America,

Standing secure, rapidly tending, overlooking the world,

Power, wealth, extent, vouchsafed to thee- with these and like

of these vouchsafed to thee,

What if one gift thou lackest? (the ultimate human problem never

solving,)

The gift of perfect women fit for thee-what if that gift of gifts

thou lackest?

The towering feminine of thee? the beauty, health, completion, fit for thee?

The mothers fit for thee?

IN a little house keep I pictures suspended, it is not a fix'd house,
It is round, it is only a few inches from one side to the other;
Yet behold, it has room for all the shows of the world, all memo-

ries!

Here the tableaus of life, and here the groupings of death;
Here, do you know this? this is cicerone himself,

With finger rais'd he points to the prodigal pictures.

THE PRAIRIE STATES.

A NEWER garden of creation, no primal solitude,

Dense, joyous, modern, populous millions, cities and farms,
With iron interlaced, composite, tied, many in one,

By all the world contributed - freedom's and law's and thrift's society,

The crown and teeming paradise, so far, of time's accumulations, To justify the past.

PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM.

PROUD music of the storm,

I

Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies,
Strong hum of forest tree-tops wind of the mountains,
Personified dim shapes you hidden orchestras,

You serenades of phantoms with instruments alert,
Blending with Nature's rhythmus all the tongues of nations;
You chords left as by vast composers - you choruses,

You formless, free, religious dances you from the Orient,
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts,

You sounds from distant guns with galloping cavalry,
Echoes of camps with all the different bugle-calls,

Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me power

less,

Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber, why have you seiz'd me?

2

Come forward O my soul, and let the rest retire,
Listen, lose not, it is toward thee they tend,
Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,
For thee they sing and dance O soul.

A festival song,

The duet of the bridegroom and the bride, a marriage-march,

With lips of love, and hearts of lovers fill'd to the brim with love, The red-flush'd cheeks and perfumes, the cortege swarming full of friendly faces young and old,

To flutes' clear notes and sounding harps' cantabile.

Now loud approaching drums,

Victoria! see'st thou in powder-smoke the banners torn but flying? the rout of the baffled?

Hearest those shouts of a conquering army?

(Ah soul, the sobs of women, the wounded groaning in agony, The hiss and crackle of flames, the blacken'd ruins, the embers

of cities,

The dirge and desolation of mankind.)

Now airs antique and mediæval fill me,

I see and hear old harpers with their harps at Welsh festivals,
I hear the minnesingers singing their lays of love,

I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the middle ages.

Now the great organ sounds,

Tremulous, while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth, On which arising rest, and leaping forth depend,

All shapes of beauty, grace and strength, all hues we know, Green blades of grass and warbling birds, children that gambol and play, the clouds of heaven above,)

The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not,

Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest, maternity of all the

rest,

And with it every instrument in multitudes,

The players playing, all the world's musicians,

The solemn hymns and masses rousing adoration,
All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals,

The measureless sweet vocalists of ages,

And for their solvent setting earth's own diapason,

Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves,

A new composite orchestra, binder of years and climes, ten-fold

renewer,

As of the far-back days the poets tell, the Paradiso,

The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering

done,

The journey done, the journeyman come home,

And man and art with Nature fused again.

Tutti! for earth and heaven;

(The Almighty leader now for once has signal'd with his wand.)

The manly strophe of the husbands of the world,

And all the wives responding.

The tongues of violins,

(I think O tongues ye tell this heart, that cannot tell itself, This brooding yearning heart, that cannot tell itself.)

Thou knowest soul how to me all sounds became music,
My mother's voice in lullaby or hymn,

(The voice, O tender voices, memory's loving voices,
Last miracle of all, O dearest mother's, sister's, voices ;)
The rain, the growing corn, the breeze among the long-leav'd corn,
The measur'd sea-surf beating on the sand,

The twittering bird, the hawk's sharp scream,

The wild-fowl's notes at night as flying low migrating north or

south,

The psalm in the country church or mid the clustering trees, the open air camp-meeting,

The fiddler in the tavern, the glee, the long-strung sailor-song,
The lowing cattle, bleating sheep, the crowing cock at dawn.

All songs of current lands come sounding round me,
The German airs of friendship, wine and love,
Irish ballads, merry jigs and dances, English warbles,
Chansons of France, Scotch tunes, and o'er the rest,
Italia's peerless compositions.

Across the stage with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion,
Stalks Norma brandishing the dagger in her hand.

I see poor crazed Lucia's eyes' unnatural gleam,
Her hair down her back falls loose and dishevel'd.

I see where Ernani walking the bridal garden,

Amid the scent of night-roses, radiant, holding his bride by the hand,

Hears the infernal call, the death-pledge of the horn.

To crossing swords and gray hairs bared to heaven,
The clear electric base and baritone of the world,
The trombone duo, Libertad forever!

From Spanish chestnut trees' dense shade,

By old and heavy convent walls a wailing song,

Song of lost love, the torch of youth and life quench'd in despair, Song of the dying swan, Fernando's heart is breaking.

Awaking from her woes at last retriev'd Amina sings,

Copious as stars and glad as morning light the torrents of her joy.

(The teeming lady comes,

The lustrious orb, Venus contralto, the blooming mother,
Sister of loftiest gods, Alboni's self I hear.)

4

I hear those odes, symphonies, operas,

I hear in the William Tell the music of an arous'd and angry people,

I hear Meyerbeer's Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert,
Gounod's Faust, or Mozart's Don Juan.

I hear the dance-music of all nations,

The waltz, some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss, The bolero to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets.

I see religious dances old and new,

I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre,

I see the crusaders marching bearing the cross on high, to the martial clang of cymbals,

I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspers'd with frantic
shouts, as they spin around turning always towards Mecca,
I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs,
Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing,
I hear them clapping their hands as they bend their bodies,
I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet.

I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding each other,

I see the Roman youth to the shrill sound of flageolets throwing and catching their weapons,

As they fall on their knees and rise again.

I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling,

I see the worshippers within, nor form nor sermon, argument nor word,

But silent, strange, devout, rais'd, glowing heads, ecstatic faces.