Vacation Verse Part 2

Well for the harvest! See, it fills the pool, In little streams goes leaping down the road.

And now the winds are joyous, and they goad Their fallen foe, until he half repeats His former fury.--One might think it snowed.

And sweep from the roofs like dust from driven streets, The spirits of the storm, wrapt in their winding-sheets.

COUNTRY BOY'S BOAST.

And hath he not whereof he needs must sing?

And hath he not whereof he well may boast?-- He from whose kin so many a one did spring To shape the mighty rocks that guard the coast Of History 'gainst Time, lest all be lost; And chiefly those who stamped the speaking page, Who bore the standard of Achievement's host In Fame's tenth legion, from the earliest age Till stately Vergil wrote, till Chelsea's Vulcan sage.

Judea's royal, world-renowned bard Was once a shepherd. How must Bethlehem's hills Have leaped and grown more lovely as they heard; Till raging monsters, music-charmed, he kills.

And saves his flock, or with his harping stills More dire destroyers in his monarch's breast!

And whence did Job arise, that prince whose ills,-- Lost, flocks, lands, family, all that he possessed,-- Wrung the immoral song his virtue to attest?

Let him be proud in later days to roam In Warwick vales by virtuous Avon's sh.o.r.e, Through fields of Ayr, around the humble home Of him, the Cincinnatus of song, or o'er Ettrick and Tweeddale in their days of yore, Or with the _Seasons'_ bard on Cheviot green, With young Chile Harold laugh o'er Loch na Garr, The Solitary trace through c.u.mbrian scene, Or weep on Suss.e.x downs with him of gentle mien.

BEFORE HARVEST.

And now 'tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo, With ringing sound of full melodious horn, Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow,-- Her sickle gleaming in the golden morn, Her arm upraised with sheaf of yellow corn,-- She comes elate with light, elastic pace; Her neck and zone full-cl.u.s.tered vines adorn; Her saffron locks, fruit-crowned; her luscious grace; Her round and ripened form; her fair, benignant face.

And now the fields, when suns serenely greet, A rich and mellow, wanton joy afford: The russet pease vines, and the burnished wheat And whiter barley,--hating to be stored, Guarding with jealous spears their precious h.o.a.rd,-- The tapering oat-stalk, dangling beads of gold: In brilliant sea of beauty all outpoured, With dazzling depth of splendor all untold, Where fleets of zephyrs skip in fold that follows fold

Like to a dream I had but yesternight, Of pure, transporting, childlike playfulness, The presence of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, bright, Thoughtless and laughing.--Words can not express In _poet_ phrase the fulness that did bless Entrancingly my vision. I advanced Behind to worship. Straight each golden tress Was ruffled and about my face they danced, Smoth'ring with beauty, while the maiden gleeful glanced.

IN ANTIc.i.p.aTION OF AUTUMN.

But now the Summer hastens to its close, And soon will Song a different aspect wear, Sweeping terrific, clad in ghostly snows, And lit by the flash of the Boreal glare, Or, but a poet in his easy chair; And her most pleasing aspect now beguiles What time is hers with deft, endearing air: With gorgeous gold she decks her garments, whiles Her melancholy face with Indian Summer smiles.

Thy very smile sends sadness to my heart.

Farewell! sweet love, the happy hour is o'er: Too well I knew that we again must part.

Her garments trail the fond, reluctant floor.

But I shall ne'er forget the dress she wore, Her looks, her words, the pleasing song she sung-- 'Tis melody will charm me more and more, 'Tis music that will keep my spirit young, 'Tis joyance in my soul, though jarring on my tongue.

I've hummed the music after thee as well As changing tones of youth allowed, and fear, And vexing sprites that choke the upward swell.

But yet, perchance, some bosom it may cheer, By recollection making thee more dear To those who've drunk thy music at its spring, To some, mayhap, who never learned to hear,-- Alas! poor, wretched souls!--its sound may bring Some semblance of thy strain, some wish to hear thee sing.

What though I have expounded nothing new, And traced, I trow, unworthily the old?

Song is no mystic science.--Men may do Strange things in other spheres, and may unfold Secrets unthought, tell tales before untold; But what thou wilt, the bard; nor less, nor more.

And to the mind informed in Nature's mould Thou has revealed thyself--the same of yore, The same to-day thou art, and shalt be evermore.

Let them who will, content themselves to sing In trifling pageantry and gilt array, To pluck the song-beads from the shimmering string That skirts thy robe. But such my soul doth sway As makes me hang upon thy breast and say "_I love thee!_"--as a mistress?--then mine own; Blindly and recklessly?--some future day, Mine eye, from thine clearer and stronger grown, May thrid the straggling stars and search the deepening dawn.

O, make my soul an argosy of song, Tranquilly floating on a sea of peace, As with her rowers beautiful and strong Some trireme bears among the Isles of Greece With music-m.u.f.fled oars! Give safe release From murky moorings, storms, and rocks that jar, And let its pearls in purity increase, Until with singing sails it cross the bar To melt in golden waves with gems of many a star!