27 Composers! mighty Maestros!

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And you, sweet singers of old lands-Soprani! Tenori! Bassi!
To you a new bard, carolling free in the West,

Obeisant, sends his love.

28 (Such led to thee, O Soul!

All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee,

But now, it seems to me, sound leads o'er all the rest.)

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29 I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul's Cathedral; Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, oratorios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn;

The Creation, in billows of godhood laves me.

30 Give me to hold all sounds, (I, madly struggling, cry,)

Fill me with all the voices of the universe,

Endow me with their throbbings-Nature's also,

The tempests, waters, winds-operas and chants-marches and dances, Utter-pour in-for I would take them all.

31 Then I woke softly,

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And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,

And questioning all those reminiscences-the tempest in its fury,

And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,

And those rapt Oriental dances, of religious fervor,

And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs,

And all the artless plaints of love, and grief and death,

I said to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumber

chamber,

Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long,

Let us go forth refresh'd amid the day,

Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,
Nourish'd henceforth by our celestial dream.

32 And I said, moreover,

Haply, what thou hast heard, O Soul, was not the sound of winds, Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk's flapping wings, nor harsh

scream,

Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy,

Nor German organ majestic-nor vast concourse of voices — nor layers of harmonies;

Nor strophes of husbands and wives-nor sound of marching soldiers, Nor flutes, nor harps, nor bugle-calls of camps;

But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,

Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught, unwritten,

Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write.

From the dusk realm of night

Comes forth the radiant morning, brushing back
The clouds like blossoms from her rosy track
With diamond dews bedight.

The priestly mocking-bird

Wakens the grossbeak with his early hymn,
And down the slopes, and through the woodlands dim,
Sweet, holy sounds are heard.

Her gold-enamelled bells

The tall campanula rings; 'mid daisies white
The lithe, slim phalaris* flaunts his pennons bright
O'er all the grassy swells.

The benzoin's breath divine

Spices the air; the jasmine censers swing;
Among the ferns beside the darkling spring
The mailed nasturtions shine.

The brown bees come and go;
His cheerful tune the lonely cricket sings;
While the quick dragon-fly, on lightning wings,
Darts flashing to and fro.

Pomegranates, golden-brown,

Drop delicate nectar through each rifted rind;
And ghostly witches'-feathert on the wind
Comes slowly riding down.

* The ribbon-grass of Southern Texas (Phalaris Americana) is remark

able for its splendid colours.

The winged seeds of a species of thistle.

The gray cicada sings
Drowsily amid th' acacia's feathery leaves;
Around her web the caterpillar weaves
The last white silken rings.

October silently

His pleasant work fulfils with busy hands,
While, cheering him, floats o'er the shining sands
The murmur of the sea.

Deep in the shady dell

The cowherd, whistling at his own rude will,
Lists, with bared head, as from the distant hill
Rings out St. Michael's bell,

Calling, with warning lips,

Matron and maid, albeit the south winds blow,
To climb the height, and pray for them that go
Down to the sea in ships.

The fishers in the boats,

Mending their nets with murmurous song and noise, Stop sudden, as Dolores' silver voice

From the gray chapel floats.

They think how, o'er the bay,

The sailor bridegroom, from her white arms torn, Sailed in the haze and gold of Michaelmas morn— One year ago to-day.

Then, rocking with the tide,

They reckon up the news of yesterday,
And count what time. to-day within the bay
The home-bound ship may ride.