THE LION AND GIRAFFE. Croaking companion of their flight, the vul- | Plunging off with frantic bound ture whirs on high; To shake the tyrant to the ground, Below, the terror of the fold, the panther, He shrieks-he rushes through the waste, fierce and sly, With glaring eye and headlong haste And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, In vain!—the spoiler on his prize join in the horrid race; By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, their monarch's course they trace. Rides proudly-tearing as he flies. 75 They see him on his living throne, and quake He strains, and pours his soul in flight; Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and He falls—and, with convulsive throe, breathes his last; O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush Swoop down, to watch in gaunt array, is descried: When the feelings were young, and the world | And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; All-all now forsaken-forgotten-foregone! And I-a lone exile remembered of none In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. My high aims abandoned,—my good acts O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating undone Aweary of all that is under the sun, With that sadness of heart which no stranger may sean, I fly to the Desert afar from man Afar in the Desert I love to ride, strife The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear— And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; pride, Afar in the Desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the And the stars burn bright in the midnight He, who hath no peer, was born, By some lone fountain fringed with green; He lived, (none else would he obey INVOCATION TO RAIN IN SUMMER. O GENTLE, gentle, summer rain, To feel that dewy touch of thine- In heat the landscape quivering lies; Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams, And soften all the hills with mist, O falling dew! from burning dreams By thee shall herb and flower be kissed, And Earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle, summer rain. W. C. BENNETT. SUMMER STORM. UNTREMULOUs in the river clear Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge; So still the air, that I can hear Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases, The huddling trample of a drove of sheep Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep A confused noise between two silences, Finding at last in dust precarious peace. On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brim ming tide, That seemed but now a league aloof Bursts rattling over the sun-parched roof. Against the windows the storm comes dash ing; Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing; The blue lightning flashes; Like the toothless sea mumbling And crashing and crumbling,- Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath, The rain stops short; but from the eaves Again, now, now, again Plashes the rain in heavy gouts; The crinkled lightning Seems ever brightening; And loud and long Again the thunder shouts His battle-song. One wildering crash, Followed by silence dead and dull, You can hear the quick heart of the tem- To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow- pest beat. Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile. For a breath's space I see the blue wood again, And then a total lull. Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there Can shape a giant in the air; No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form;— The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled Silent and few, are drifting over me. pile, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SUMMER RAIN. And the vapors that arise 79 RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide With a 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 neighboring school With more than their wonted noise 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, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, To the dry grass and the drier grain 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, 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, His pastures and his fields of grain, To the numberless beating drops Only his own thrift and gain. Walking the fenceless fields of air; Of the clouds about him rolled As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colors seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Thus the seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, From birth to death, from death to birth, earth. |