"Wassail for the kingly stranger And the lightning showed the sainted In that hour of deep contrition, 1 All the pomp of earth had vanished, Every vassal of his banner, All those wronged and wretched creatures, And as, on the sacred missal, And the monk replied, "Amen! Many centuries have been numbered Mingling with the common dust: But the good deed, through the ages RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, 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. 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, Where far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain! In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapours 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, His pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told,- 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 underground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colours seven Climbing up once more to heaven, 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 for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. TO A CHILD. DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, With what a look of proud command 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, The buried treasures of the miser, Time. But, lo, thy door is left ajar! Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison-walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, I That won thy little beating heart before; Through these once solitary halls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls, Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out, into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, Along the garden-walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, |