Through the closed blinds the golden sun And ever and anon, the wind, Sweet-scented with the hay, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves That on the window lay. Long was the good man's sermon, Long was the prayer he uttered, But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear. Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh; This memory brightens o'er the past, Behind some cloud that near us hangs, How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs ! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window-pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain! The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Engulfs them in its whirling In the country, on every side, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, To the dry grass and the drier grain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees! He can behold Walking the fenceless fields of air; Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. TO A CHILD. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung nor said. Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground; Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. TO A CHILD. EAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, 35 The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The dancing girl, the grave bashaw And, leaning idly o'er his gate, With what a look of proud command The coral rattle with its silver bells, Thousands of years in Indian seas Reposed of yore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells In some obscure and sunless place, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the pirate, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! |