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And, bright little Barbs, ye make worthy pre

tences To go with the going of Solomon's sires ; But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the

fences ! And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires.

O gay gondolier! from thy night-fitting shal

lop I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar; But sweeter the rhythmical rush of the gallop,

The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster

Hath ever strode under a man at his need; But glad in the hand and embrace of thy mas

ter, And pant to the passionate music of speed.

Now in memory comes my mother,

As she used long years agone, To regard the darling dreamers

Ere she left them till the dawn. Oh! I see her leaning o'er me,

As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles

By the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother

A serene, angelic pair-
Glide around my wakeful pillow

With their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur
Of the soft rain on the roof.

Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person

So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget, So fully adapted to break into burgeon

As this — that the steel is n't out of him yet; That flying speed tickles one's brain with a feather; That one's horse can restore one the years that

are gone; That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather, The blood and the pace carry on, carry on


And another comes, to thrill me

With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her,

That her heart was all untrue!
I remember but to love her

With a passion kin to pain,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate

To the patter of the rain.
Art hath naught of tone or cadence

That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,

Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of Nature,

That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.


Rain on the Roof.

When the humid shadows hover

Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness

Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow

Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter

Of the soft rain overhead !

Invocation to Rain in Summer.

Every tinkle on the shingles

Has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies

Into busy being start,
And a thousand recollections

Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter

of the rain upon the roof.

O GENTLE, gentle summer rain,

Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain

To feel that dewy touch of thine,
To drink thy freshness once again,

O gentle, gentle summer rain!
In heat the landscape quivering lies;

The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies

The earth looks up, in vain, for thee;



For thee, for thee, it looks in vain,

O gentle, gentle summer rain !

Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams,

And soften all the hills with mist,
O falling dew! from burning dreams

By these shall herb and flower be kissed ;
And Earth shall bless thee yet again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!


As, on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea


Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

The Cloud.

That orbed maiden with white fis laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor

By the midnight breezes strewn;
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin


The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noon-day dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain;

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast ;
And all the night, 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder;

It struggles and howls at fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves, remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and


When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my


Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex


Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the

I arise and unbuild it again.


Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay; The red-breast pours his sweetest strains,

To charm the ling’ring day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail

Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.


The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again;
Tnie plants suck in the earth, and are,
With constant drinking, fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need to drink),
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less),
Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun :
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal “ health” goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high-
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

ANACREON. (Greek.) Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

The Wandering Wind. The Wind, the wandering Wind

Of the golden summer eves — Whence is the thrilling magic

Of its tones amongst the leaves Oh! is it from the waters,

Or from the long tall grass ? Or is it from the hollow rocks

Through which its breathings pass

Or is it from the voices

Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery!

The Wind, the wandering Wind ! No, no! the strange, sweet accents

That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers,

Nor the fir-trees whispering low.

The Midges Wance aboon the Burn.

The midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa’;
The pairtricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw, While, flitting gay, the swallows play

Around the castle wa'.

They are not of the waters,

Nor of the caverned hill; 'Tis the human love within us

That gives them power to thrill: They touch the links of memory

Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind 1





All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
Ode to the West Wind.

So sweet the sense faints picturing them! Thou

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below, being,

The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which wear Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead | The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou, Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; Each like a corpse within its grave, until

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow A wave to pant beneath thy power and share
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill The impulse of thy strength — only less free
(Driving sweet buds, like flocks, to feed in air) Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
With living hues and odors, plain and hill: I were as in my boyhood, and could be
Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere; The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven
Destroyer and preserver; hear, 0 hear!

As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven




Thou, on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. motion,

Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed ! Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is. Of the horizon to the zenith's height,

What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will take from both a deep autumnal tone
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Of vapors; from whose solid atmosphere

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: 0 hear! Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ;

And, by the incantation of this verse,
Thon who didst waken from his summer dreams Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Lalled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Be through my lips to unawakened earth Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,

The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers,

If winter comes, can spring be far behind 1 Quivering within the waves' intenser day,


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