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-flitting shallop 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 master, And pant to the passionate music of speed. Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person 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? RICHARD ST. JOHN TYRWHITT. Now in memory comes my mother, As I list to this refrain Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brotherA serene, angelic pairGlide around my wakeful pillow With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. 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. COATES KINNEY. 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! Every tinkle on the shingles And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Invocation to Rain in Summer. O GENTLE, gentle summer rain, To feel that dewy touch of thine, 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, By these shall herb and flower be kissed; THE CLOUD. WILLIAM C. BENNETT. The Cloud. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 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, Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the lakes and the plains, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, When the morning star shines dead. 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; 63 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, From the depth of heaven above, That orbed maiden with white fladen, And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 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, For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, 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 tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Drinking. THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done, Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY. ANACREON. (Greek.) The Midges Dance aboon the Burn. THE midges dance aboon the burn; The pairtricks down the rushy holm Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The red-breast pours his sweetest strains, The roses fauld their silken leaves, Spread fragrance through the dell. The simple joys that Nature yields ROBERT TANNAHILL. The Wandering Wind. THE Wind, the wandering Wind Or from the long tall grass? 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. 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? FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's | Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below, being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, II. Thou, on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge Of the dying year, to which this closing night of vapors; from whose solid atmosphere III. Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers, The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! IV. If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed V. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is. Will take from both a deep autumnal tone- Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth If winter comes, can spring be far behind? PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Tacking Ship off Shore. THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken. Open one point on the weather-bow, Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head? There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye The ship bends lower before the breeze, As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!" It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, Waiting the watchword impatient stands. And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, With the welcome call of "Ready! About!" No time to spare! It is touch and go; And the captain growls, "Down, helm! hard down!" As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown. High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!" With the swerving leap of a startled steed The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind. The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" 'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for, "Mainsail, haul!" And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: She holds her way, and I look with joy For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. "Let go, and haul!" "Tis the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: Astern and to leeward lies the land, With its breakers white on the shingly shore. What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? The Sea. WALTER MITCHELL. THE sea! the sea! the open sea! It runneth the earth's wide regions round; I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, If a storm should come and awake the deep, I love, oh how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, |