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 ! In the broad and fiery street, How beautiful is the rain 1 How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs! How it gushes and struggles out RAIN IN SUMMER 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 neighbouring 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, Where far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, 249 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 manʼs spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain To the numberless beating drops 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 The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, For his thought, that never stops, 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; And sees them, when the rain is done, TO A CHILD. On the bridge of colors seven Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change 251 From birth to death, from death to birth, Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 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, The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the grave bashaw With what a look of proud command The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! 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 buried treasures of the pirate, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! And, at the sound, 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! Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. |