And the lightning showed the sainted In that hour of deep contrition, All the pomp of earth had vanished, Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, And the monk replied, " Amen! " Many centuries have been numbered Mingling with the common dust : But the good deed, through the ages Unconsumed by moth or rust. RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, 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! 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, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain! In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise 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, 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; RAIN IN SUMMER. 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 That have not yet been wholly told, Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 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, 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 for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 309 GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws; Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? |