RHYMES OF THE RIVER. Then disastered and dim, Swinging sullen and grim, Where the old ragged shadows of hovels are shed; As in dream, or in doubt, In the reeds and the rushes slow rocking the dead. When all crimson and gold, Do the fleecy clouds flock to the gateway of even, But a way paved with morn, Ay, a bright golden street to the city of Heaven! In the great stony heart Of the feverish mart, Is the throb of thy pulses pellucid, to-day; By green velvet edges, Where the corn waves its sabre, thou glidest away. Broad and brave, deep and strong, Thou art lapsing along; And the stars rise and fall in thy turbulent tide, White swan's breast is lifted, Or a June fleet of lilies at anchor may ride. And yet, gallant river, That hast cleft the broad world on thy way to the main, With a smile and a tear, And, a Hebrew, read back to thy fountains again. 23 Ah, well I remember, Ere dying December Would fall like a snow-flake, and melt on thy breast, O'er thy waters so narrow Used to send his low song to his mate on the nest. With a silvery skein Wove of snow and of rain, Thou didst wander at will through the bud-laden land,— And the meadow a palm,— As a blue vein meanders a liberal hand. When the school-master's daughter And laughingly proffered the crystal to me, Oh there ne'er sparkled up A more exquisite cup Than the pair of white hands that were brimming with thee! And there all together, In bright summer weather, Did we loiter with thee, along thy green brink; And how silent we grew, If the robin came too, When he looked up to pray, and then bent down to drink Ah, where are the faces, From out thy still places, That so often smiled back in those soft days of May? Thou didst double the band, As idle as daisies--and fleeting as they! RHYMES OF THE RIVER. Like the dawn in the cloud, Lay the babe in its shroud, And a rose-bud was clasped in its frozen white hand: It had opened the book, As if sweet-breathing June were abroad in the land! O pure placid river, In the Gardens of Paradise, hard by the throne! Gently drifted before, We may find the lost blossoms that once were our own. Ah, beautiful river, Flow onward forever! Thou art grander than Avon, and sweeter than Ayr; If a star has been taken, In thy bosom we look-bud and Pleiad are there ! I take up the old words, Like the song of dead birds, That were breathed when I stood farther off from the sea: When I heard not its hymn, When the headlands were dim:-. Shall I ever again weave a rhythm for thee? BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. 25 Drifting. MY soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote ;— Round purple peaks It sails and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim The gray smoke stands, Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. DRIFTING. Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled ;- Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense; The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,— O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid, Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 27 |