In Divers Tones | Page 5

BREATH OF STORM.
Before the breath of storm.
While yet the long, bright afternoons are
warm,
Under this stainless arch of azure sky
The air is filled with gathering wings for flight;
Yet with the shrill
mirth and the loud delight
Comes the foreboding sorrow of this cry--

"Till the storm scatter and the gloom dispel,
Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell!"
Why will ye go so soon,
In these soft hours, this sweeter month than
June?
The liquid air floats over field and tree
A veil of dreams;--where do ye find the sting?
A gold enchantment
sleeps upon the sea
And purple hills;--why have ye taken wing?
But faint, far-heard, the
answers fall and swell--
"Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell!"
OUT OF POMPEII.
Save what the night-wind woke of sweet
And solemn sound, I heard
alone
The sleepless ocean's ceaseless beat,
The surge's monotone.
Low down the south a dreary gleam
Of white light smote the sullen
swells,
Evasive as a blissful dream,
Or wind-borne notes of bells.
The water's lapping whispers stole
Into my brain, and there effaced

All human memories from my soul,--
An atom in a shifting waste.

Weird fingers, groping, strove to raise
Some numbing horror from
my mind;
And ever, as it met my gaze,
The sharp truth struck me
blind.
The keen edged breath of the salt sea
Stung, but a faint, swift,
sulphurous smell
Blew past, and I reeled dizzily
As from the blink
of hell,
One moment; then the swan-necked prow
Sustained me, and once
more I scanned
The unfenced flood, against my brow
Arching my
lifted hand.
O'er all the unstable vague expanse
I towered the lord supreme, and
smiled;
And marked the hard, white sparkles glance,
The dark vault
wide and wild.
Again that faint wind swept my face--
With hideous menace swept
my eyes.
I cowered back in my straitened place
And groped with
dim surmise,
Not knowing yet. Not knowing why,
I turned, as one asleep might
turn,
And noted with half curious eye
The figure crouched astern.
On heaped-up leopard skins she crouched,
Asleep, and soft skins
covered her,
And scarlet stuffs where she was couched,
Sodden
with sea-water,
Burned lurid with black stains, and smote
My thought with waking
pangs; I saw
The white arm drooping from the boat,

Round-moulded, pure from flaw;
The yellow sandals even-thonged;
The fair face, wan with haunting
pain;--
Then sudden, crowding memories thronged
Like unpent
sudden rain.
Clear-stamped, as by white lightning when
The swift flame rends the

night, wide-eyed
I saw dim streets, and fleeing men,
And walls
from side to side
Reeling, and great rocks fallen; a pall
Above us, an encumbering
shroud
About our feet, and over all
The awful Form that bowed
Our hearts, the fiery scourge that smote
The city,--the red Mount.
Clear, clear
I saw it,--and this lonely boat,
And us two drifting here!
With one sharp cry I sprang and hid
My face among the skins beside

Her feet, and held her safe, and chid
The tumult till it died.
And crouched thus at her rescued feet
Save her low breath, I heard
alone
The sleepless ocean's ceaseless beat,
The surge's monotone.
TO FREDERICTON IN MAY-TIME.
This morning, full of breezes and perfume,
Brimful of promise of
midsummer weather,
When bees and birds and I are glad together,

Breathes of the full-leaved season, when soft gloom
Chequers thy
streets, and thy close elms assume
Round roof and spire the
semblance of green billows;
Yet now thy glory is the yellow willows,

The yellow willows, full of bees and bloom.
Under their dusty blossoms blackbirds meet,
And robins pipe amid
the cedars nigher.
Thro' the still elms I hear the ferry's beat.
The
swallows chirp about the towering spire;
The whole air pulses with its
weight of sweet,
Yet not quite satisfied is my desire!
IN SEPTEMBER.
This windy, bright September afternoon
My heart is wide awake, yet
full of dreams.
The air, alive with hushed confusion, teems
With
scent of grain-fields, and a mystic rune,
Foreboding of the fall of
Summer soon,
Keeps swelling and subsiding, till there seems
O'er

all the world of valleys, hills, and streams,
Only the wind's
inexplicable tune.
My heart is full of dreams, yet wide awake.
I lie and watch the
topmost tossing boughs
Of tall elms, pale against the vaulted blue;

But even now some yellowing branches shake,
Some hue of death the
living green endows:--
If beauty flies, fain would I vanish too.
CONCERNING CUTHBERT THE MONK.
Cuthbert, open! Let me in!
Cease your praying for a minute!
Here
the darkness seems to grin,
Holds a thousand horrors in it;
Down
the stony corridor
Footsteps pace the stony floor.
Here they foot it, pacing slow,
Monk-like, one behind another!--

Don't you hear me? Don't you know
I'm a little nervous, Brother?

Won't you speak? Then, by your leave,
Here's a guest for Christmas
Eve!
Shrive me, but I got a fright!
Monks of centuries ago
Wander back
to see to-night
How the old place looks.--Hello!
This the kind of
watch you keep!
Come to pray--and go to sleep!
Ah, this mortal flesh is weak!
Who is saintly there's no saying.
Here
are tears upon his cheek,
And he sleeps that should be praying;--

Sleeps, and dreams, and murmurs. Nay,
I'll not wake you.--Sleep
away!
Holy saints, the night is keen!
How the nipping wind does drive

Through yon tree-tops, bare and lean,
Till their shadow seems alive,--

Patters through the