THE VOICE OF THE RAIN. And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower, Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea, Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, and yet the same, I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe, And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn; And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin, and make pure and beautify it : (For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering, Reck'd or unreck'd. duly with love returns.) SOON SHALL THE WINTER'S FOIL BE HERE. Soon shall the winter's foil be here; Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt-A little while, And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and growth-a thousand forms shall rise From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves. Thine eyes, ears-all thy best attributes-all that takes cognizance of natural beauty, Shall wake and fill. Thou shalt perceive the simple shows, the delicate miracles of earth, Dandelions, clover, the emerald grass, the early scents and flowers, The arbutus under foot, the willow's yellow-green, the blossoming plum and cherry; With these the robin, lark and thrush, singing their songs-the flitting bluebird; For such the scenes the annual play brings on. WHILE NOT THE PAST FORGETTING. While not the past forgetting, To-day, at least, contention sunk entire-peace, brotherhood up risen ; For sign reciprocal our Northern, Southern hands, Lay on the graves of all dead soldiers, North or South, (Nor for the past alone-for meanings to the future,) Wreaths of roses and branches of palm. Publish'd May 30, 1888 THE DYING VETERAN. [A Long Island incident — early part of the present century.] Amid these days of order, ease, prosperity, Amid the current songs of beauty, peace, decorum, I cast a reminiscence-(likely 'twill offend you, I heard it in my boyhood;)-More than a generation since, A queer old savage man, a fighter under Washington himself, (Large, brave, cleanly, hot-blooded, no talker, rather spiritualistic, Had fought in the ranks-fought well-had been all through the Revolutionary war,) Lay dying-sons, daughters, church-deacons, lovingly tending him, Sharping their sense, their ears, towards his murmuring, halfcaught words: "Let me return again to my war-days, To the sights and scenes-to forming the line of battle, To the cannons, the grim artillery, To the galloping aids, carrying orders, To the wounded, the fallen, the heat, the suspense, STRONGER LESSONS. Have you learn'd lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learn'd great lessons from those who reject you, and brace themselves against you? or who treat you with contempt, or dispute the passage with you? A PRAIRIE SUNSET. Shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling silver, emerald, fawn, The earth's whole amplitude and Nature's multiform power consign'd for once to colors; The light, the general air possess'd by them-colors till now un, known, No limit, confine-not the Western sky alone-the high meridian-North, South, all, Pure luminous color fighting the silent shadows to the last. TWENTY YEARS. Down on the ancient wharf, the sand, I sit, with a new-comer chatting: He shipp'd as green-hand boy, and sail'd away, (took some sudden, vehement notion ;) Since, twenty years and more have circled round and round, While he the globe was circling round and round,—and now returns: How changed the place-all the old land-marks gone-the parents dead; (Yes, he comes back to lay in port for good-to settle-has a wellfill'd purse-no spot will do but this ;) The little boat that scull'd him from the sloop, now held in leash I see, I hear the slapping waves, the restless keel, the rocking in the sand, I see the sailor kit, the canvas bag, the great box bound with brass, I scan the face all berry-brown and bearded-the stout-strong frame, Dress'd in its russet suit of good Scotch cloth: (Then what the told-out story of those twenty years? What of the future?) ORANGE BUDS BY MAIL FROM FLORIDA. [Voltaire closed a famous argument by claiming that a ship of war and the grand opera were proofs enough of civilization's and France's progress, in his day.] A lesser proof than old Voltaire's, yet greater, Proof of this present time, and thee, thy broad expanse, To my plain Northern hut, in outside clouds and snow, TWILIGHT. The soft voluptuous opiate shades, The sun just gone, the eager light dispell'd-(I too will soon be gone, dispell'd,) A haze nirwana-rest and night-oblivion. YOU LINGERING SPARSE LEAVES OF ME. You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs, You tokens diminute and lorn-(not now the flush of May, or You pallid banner-staves-you pennants valueless—you overstay'd of time, Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest, NOT MEAGRE, LATENT BOUGHS ALONE. Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like eagles' talons,) But haply for some sunny day (who knows?) some future spring, some summer-bursting forth, To verdant leaves, or sheltering shade-to nourishing fruit, Apples and grapes-the stalwart limbs of trees emerging-the fresh, free, open air, And love and faith, like scented roses blooming. THE DEAD EMPEROR. To-day, with bending head and eyes, thou, too, Columbia, Thy true condolence breathest, sendest out o'er many a salt sea mile, Mourning a good old man-a faithful shepherd, patriot. AS THE GREEK'S SIGNAL FLAME. [For Whittier's eightieth birthday, December 17, 1887.] THE DISMANTLED SHIP. In some unused lagoon, some nameless bay, On sluggish, lonesome waters, anchor'd near the shore, Lies rusting, mouldering. NOW PRECEDENT SONGS, FAREWELL. Now precedent songs, farewell-by every name farewell, (Trains of a staggering line in many a strange procession, waggons, From ups and downs-with intervals-from elder years, mid-age, or youth,) "In Cabin'd Ships," or "Thee Old Cause" or "Poets to Come" Or "Paumanok,' Song of Myself," "Calamus," or "Adam,' Or "Beat! Beat! Drums!" or "To the Leaven'd Soil they Trod," Or 66 Captain! My Captain!" "Kosmos," "Quicksand Years," or "Thoughts," "Thou Mother with thy Equal Brood," and many, many more unspecified, From fibre heart of mine-from throat and tongue-(My life's hot pulsing blood, The personal urge and form for me-not merely paper, automatic type and ink,) Each song of mine—each utterance in the past—having its long, long history, Of life or death, or soldier's wound, of country's loss or safety, (O heaven! what flash and started endless train of all! compared indeed to that! What wretched shred e'en at the best of all!) AN EVENING LULL. After a week of physical anguish, Unrest and pain, and feverish heat, Toward the ending day a calm and lull comes on, *The two songs on this page are eked out during an afternoon, June, 1888, in my seventieth year, at a critical spell of illness. Of course no reader and probably no human being at any time will ever have such phases of emotional and solemn action as these involve to me. I feel in them an end and close of all. |