Selections from American poetry Part 36

There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thins, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floors And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore.

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!

This morning the parson takes a drive.

Now, small boys, get out of the way!

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.

"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next.

All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.

First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around?

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground!

You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, All at once, and nothing first, Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-boss shay.

Logic is logic. That's all I say.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

STORM ON ST. BERNARD

Oh, Heaven, it is a fearful thing Beneath the tempest's beating wing To struggle, like a stricken hare When swoops the monarch bird of air; To breast the loud winds' fitful spasms, To brave the cloud and shun the chasms, Tossed like a fretted shallop-sail Between the ocean and the gale.

Along the valley, loud and fleet, The rising tempest leapt and roared, And scaled the Alp, till from his seat The throned Eternity of Snow His frequent avalanches poured In thunder to the storm below.

And now, to crown their fears, a roar Like ocean battling with the sh.o.r.e, Or like that sound which night and day Breaks through Niagara's veil of spray, From some great height within the cloud,

To some unmeasured valley driven, Swept down, and with a voice so loud It seemed as it would shatter heaven!

The bravest quailed; it swept so near, It made the ruddiest cheek to blanch, While look replied to look in fear, "The avalanche! The avalanche!"

It forced the foremost to recoil, Before its sideward billows thrown,-- Who cried, "O G.o.d! Here ends our toil!

The path is overswept and gone!"

The night came down. The ghostly dark, Made ghostlier by its sheet of snow, Wailed round them its tempestuous wo, Like Death's announcing courier! "Hark There, heard you not the alp-hound's bark?

And there again! and there! Ah, no, 'Tis but the blast that mocks us so!"

Then through the thick and blackening mist Death glared on them, and breathed so near, Some felt his breath grow almost warm, The while he whispered in their ear Of sleep that should out-dream the storm.

Then lower drooped their lids,--when, "List!

Now, heard you not the storm-bell ring?

And there again, and twice and thrice!

Ah, no, 'tis but the thundering Of tempests on a crag of ice!"

Death smiled on them, and it seemed good On such a mellow bed to lie The storm was like a lullaby, And drowsy pleasure soothed their blood.

But still the st.u.r.dy, practised guide His unremitting labour plied; Now this one shook until he woke, And closer wrapt the other's cloak,-- Still shouting with his utmost breath, To startle back the hand of Death, Brave words of cheer! "But, hark again,-- Between the blasts the sound is plain; The storm, inhaling, lulls,--and hark!

It is--it is! the alp-dog's bark And on the tempest's pa.s.sing swell-- The voice of cheer so long debarred-- There swings the Convent's guiding-bell, The sacred bell of Saint Bernard!"

DRIFTING

My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat A bird afloat, Swings round the purple peaks remote:--

Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While an Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies, O'erveiled with vines She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one,-- Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip!

O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more The worldly sh.o.r.e Upbraids me with its loud uproar With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!

WALT WHITMAN

PIONEERS! O PIONEERS!