Green Fields and Running Brooks | Page 8

the door:?But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum?Clean acrost; an' when he come?To th' uther side, he thist put on?His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone!?You could n't see him at all!--An' so?He slewed the "griffuns"--boff, you know!?Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head?High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,--?"Whoever kin this trumput blow?Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!"?An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed?The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed?Th' castul-gates wide open, an'?Nen tuck his gold sword in his han',?An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore,"?An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four?Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!--?Wisht 'at I'd been Jack!--don't you?
WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED.
O it was but a dream I had?While the musician played!--?And here the sky, and here the glad?Old ocean kissed the glade--?And here the laughing ripples ran,?And here the roses grew?That threw a kiss to every man?That voyaged with the crew.
Our silken sails in lazy folds?Drooped in the breathless breeze:?As o'er a field of marigolds?Our eyes swam o'er the seas;?While here the eddies lisped and purled?Around the island's rim,?And up from out the underworld?We saw the mermen swim.
And it was dawn and middle-day?And midnight--for the moon?On silver rounds across the bay?Had climbed the skies of June--?And there the glowing, glorious king?Of day ruled o'er his realm,?With stars of midnight glittering?About his diadem.
The seagull reeled on languid wing?In circles round the mast,?We heard the songs the sirens sing?As we went sailing past;?And up and down the golden sands?A thousand fairy throngs?Flung at us from their flashing hands?The echoes of their songs.
O it was but a dream I had?While the musician played--?For here the sky, and here the glad?Old ocean kissed the glade;?And here the laughing ripples ran,?And here the roses grew?That threw a kiss to every man?That voyaged with the crew.
AUGUST.
A day of torpor in the sullen heat?Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream?The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,?With drowsy eyes, and dream.
Long since the winds have died, and in the sky?There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief;?The sun glares ever like an evil eye,?And withers flower and leaf.
Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote?The thresher lies deserted, like some old?Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat?Upon a sea of gold.
The yearning cry of some bewildered bird?Above an empty nest, and truant boys?Along the river's shady margin heard--?A harmony of noise--
A melody of wrangling voices blent?With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls?Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent?To mimic waterfalls.
And through the hazy veil the atmosphere?Has draped about the gleaming face of Day,?The sifted glances of the sun appear?In splinterings of spray.
The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn,?Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by,?A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on?His journey to the sky.
And down across the valley's drooping sweep,?Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade,?The forest stands in silence, drinking deep?Its purple wine of shade.
The gossamer floats up on phantom wing;?The sailor-vision voyages the skies?And carries into chaos everything?That freights the weary eyes:
Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat?Increases--reaches--passes fever's height,?And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet,?Within the arms of Night.
TO HEAR HER SING.
To hear her sing--to hear her sing--?It is to hear the birds of Spring?In dewy groves on blooming sprays?Pour out their blithest roundelays.
It is to hear the robin trill?At morning, or the whip-poor-will?At dusk, when stars are blossoming--?To hear her sing--to hear her sing!
To hear her sing--it is to hear?The laugh of childhood ringing clear?In woody path or grassy lane?Our feet may never fare again.
Faint, far away as Memory dwells,?It is to hear the village bells?At twilight, as the truant hears?Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.
Such joy it is to hear her sing,?We fall in love with everything--?The simple things of every day?Grow lovelier than words can say.
The idle brooks that purl across?The gleaming pebbles and the moss,?We love no less than classic streams--?The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.
To hear her sing--with folded eyes,?It is, beneath Venetian skies,?To hear the gondoliers' refrain,?Or troubadours of sunny Spain.--
To hear the bulbul's voice that shook?The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:?What wonder we in homage bring?Our hearts to her--to hear her sing!
BEING HIS MOTHER.
Being his mother--when he goes away?I would not hold him overlong, and so?Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O?So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay?To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay,?Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although?Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow;?Let his remembered features, as I pray,?Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love?Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise:?Its fullest speech ever to be denied?Mine own--being his mother! All thereof?Thou knowest only, looking from the skies?As when not Christ alone was crucified.
JUNE AT WOODRUFF.
Out at Woodruff Place--afar?From the city's glare and jar,?With the leafy trees, instead?Of the awnings, overhead;?With