THE INDIAN HUNTER. WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in, Looked down where the valley lay stretched below. He was a stranger there, and all that day The winds of autumn came over the woods, The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, When years had passed on, by that still lake side, The fisher looked down through the silver tide, And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed, A skeleton wasted and white was laid, And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow. How beautiful is the rain! How beautiful is the rain ! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs ! RAIN IN SUMMER. How it gushes and struggles out Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, 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 From the throat of the overflowing spout! That he sees therein Across the window pane It pours and pours ; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars 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 And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side Where far and wide, Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, He can behold Walking the fenceless fieids of air, Of the clouds about him rolled The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers underground; And sees them, when the rain is done, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Climbing up once more to heaven, Stretches the plain. To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain! In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; 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 Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, From birth to death, from death to birth, earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel In the rapid and rushing river of Time. TO A CHILD. DEAR Child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, With what a look of proud command Thousands of years in Indian seas Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells In some obscure and sunless place, And thus for thee, O little child, Beneath the burning, tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The buried treasures of the pirate, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Some source of wonder and surprise! Thou strivest. strugglest, to be free. Are now like prison walls to thee. No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor Through these once solitary halls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, And yonder meadows broad and damp But what are these grave thoughts to theer Out, out! into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace, And see at every t how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, Here at the portal thou dost stand, Thou openest the mysterious gate As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, And watch its swift-receding beams, By what astrology of fear or hope |