Across the window-pane With the 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 drier grain How welcome is the rain! In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapours 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 man's 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, Aquarius1 old 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,— 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 underground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colours seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, The water-bearer, one of the twelve signs in the zodiac, the track of the sun. 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. 6. H. W. LONGFELLOW. To a Skylark. UP with me! up with me into the clouds! Up with me, up with me into the clouds! With clouds and sky about thee ringing, That spot which seems so to thy mind! Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, I, with any fate contented, will plod on, And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 7. W. WORDSWORTH. The Voice of Spring. I COME, I come! ye have called me long, I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north, And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free, And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; 8. To the Cuckoo. F. HEMANS. NOT the whole warbling grove in concert heard The captive, 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired, Hesperia was a name given to Italy by the Greeks. It is derived from Hesper or Vesper, the evening or setting sun. Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, 9. Written in March. THE Cock is crowing, The green field sleeps in the sun; Are at work with the strongest ; Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The plough-boy is whooping--anon--anon : There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! W. WORDSWORTH. 10. To the Cuckoo. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. |