Golden Numbers Part 6

From the neighboring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion; 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, Stretches the plain, To the dry gra.s.s and the drier grain How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand, Lifting the yoke-enc.u.mbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale 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 l.u.s.trous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

_Invocation to Rain in Summer_

O gentle, gentle summer rain, Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain To feel that dewy touch of thine-- To drink thy freshness once again, O gentle, gentle summer rain!

In heat the landscape quivering lies; The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies The earth looks up, in vain, for thee; For thee--for thee, it looks in vain, O gentle, gentle summer rain!

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!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

_The Latter Rain_

The latter rain,--it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the spring; No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The robins only 'mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves; The rain falls still,--the fruit all ripened drops, It pierces chestnut-bur and walnut-sh.e.l.l; The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops; Each bursting pod of talents used can tell; And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

JONES VERY.

_The Wind_[4]

I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pa.s.s, Like ladies' skirts across the gra.s.s-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid, I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old?

Are you a beast of field and tree Or just a stronger child than me?

O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

[Footnote 4: _From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By courtesy of Charles Scribner's Sons._]

_Ode to the Northeast Wind_

Welcome, wild Northeaster!

Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee.

Welcome, black Northeaster!

O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home.

Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air.

Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day; Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play!

Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy d.y.k.e; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike.

Fill the lake with wild-fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe.

Through the black fir forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snowflakes Off the curdled sky.

Hark! the brave Northeaster!

Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent.

Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow, Who can override you?

Let the horses go!

Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past.

Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams.

Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes.

What does he but soften Heart alike and pen?

'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men.

What's the soft Southwester?

'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true loves Out of all the seas; But the black Northeaster, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak, Seaward round the world!

Come! as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea.

Come! and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of G.o.d!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

_The Windy Night_[5]

Alow and aloof, Over the roof, How the midnight tempests howl!

With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune Of wolves that bay at the desert moon;-- Or whistle and shriek Through limbs that creak, "Tu-who! tu-whit!"

They cry and flit, "Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn owl!

Alow and aloof, Over the roof, Sweep the moaning winds amain, And wildly dash The elm and ash, Clattering on the window-sash, With a clatter and patter, Like hail and rain That well nigh shatter The dusky pane!

Alow and aloof, Over the roof, How the tempests swell and roar!

Though no foot is astir, Though the cat and the cur Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, There are feet of air On every stair!

Through every hall-- Through each gusty door, There's a jostle and bustle, With a silken rustle, Like the meeting of guests at a festival!

Alow and aloof, Over the roof, How the stormy tempests swell!

And make the vane On the spire complain-- They heave at the steeple with might and main And burst and sweep Into the belfry, on the bell!

They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, That the s.e.xton tosses his arms in sleep, And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

[Footnote 5: _By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co._]

_The Brook_

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.