style="font-size:15px;"> From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toilTheir large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word. Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees
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 That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold
Things manifold
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That have not yet been wholly told,-- Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops
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, Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer, With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
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. The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw,
The dancing girl, the grave bashaw
With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin.
With what a look of proud command
Thou shakest in thy little hand
The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune!
Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! Those silver bells
Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore,
Far down in the deep-sunken wells
Of darksome mines,
In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines
And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape;
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For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath a burning, tropic clime,
The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild,
In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid,
The buried treasures of the miser, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar!
Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at the sound,
Thou turnest round
With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand
Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently,
Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free, The four walls of thy nursery
Are now like prison walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles,
No more the painted tiles,
Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, That won thy little, beating heart before; Thou strugglest for the open door.
Through these once solitary halls
Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls
Jubilant, and they rejoice
With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness
From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls,
One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt.
And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt.
Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread;
Yes, within this very room
Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head.
But what are these grave thoughts to thee? 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, As restless as the bee.
Along the garden walks,
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The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface
Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes
Above the cavernous and secret homes
Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane,
