In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Till at length the lays they chaunted Tears upon his eyelids glistened, Turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly stranger And the lightning showed the sainted In that hour of deep contrition, All the pomp of earth had vanished, Every vassal of his banner, All those wronged and wretched creatures By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, "Amen!" K Many centuries have been numbered Mingling with the common dust: RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! 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 neighbouring 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 grass and the drier grain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, And the vapours 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. The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain, To the numberless beating drops 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 Walking the fenceless fields of air, Of the clouds about him rolled The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold 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 colours seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, From birth to death, from death to birth, 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. 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, The Chinese mandarin. With what a look of proud command Thousands of years in Indian seas Reposed of yore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells In some obscure and sunless place, And thus for thee, O little child, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The buried treasures of the pirate, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Some source of wonder and surprise! Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. 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 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, |