Graded Memory Selections Part 17

--_Bible._

RAIN IN SUMMER.

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters upon the roofs Like the tramp of hoofs!

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!

From the neighboring school Come the boys With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic[28] fleets, Till the treacherous pool Engulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean.

In the country on every side, Where, far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry gra.s.s and the drier grain How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand, Lifting the yoke-enc.u.mbered[29] head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil For this rest in the furrow after toil, Their large and l.u.s.trous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain.

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 Aquarius[30] old Walking the fenceless fields of air And, from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled, Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung nor said.

For his thought, which 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, On the bridge of colors seven, Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the seer,[31]

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 forevermore In the rapid and rushing river of time.

--_Longfellow._

[28] _mimic_, copies (toys).

[29] _enc.u.mbered_, burdened.

[30] _Aquarius_, water-bearer.

[31] _seer_, prophet, wise man.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts though stout and brave, Still, like m.u.f.fled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle-- Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant; Let the dead past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living present, Heart within, and G.o.d o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time:

Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

--_Longfellow._

HYMN ON THE FIGHT AT CONCORD.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept, Alike the conqueror silent sleeps, And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day the votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

--_R. W. Emerson._

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowlers' eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart, Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.