Volume Ii Part 17 (1/2)
[Ill.u.s.tration: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.]
THE EVENING WIND.
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow: Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fullness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languis.h.i.+ng to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, G.o.d's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pa.s.s, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the gra.s.s.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go--but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the sh.o.r.e; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free!
Sing,--for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his hors.e.m.e.n, all splendid and brave,-- How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and hors.e.m.e.n are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free!
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword.
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah hath triumphed,--His people are free!
THOMAS MOORE.
CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS.
Up! up! ye dames, ye la.s.ses gay!
To the meadows trip away, 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.