XLIV. THE CLOUD. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves, remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, While he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. That orbéd maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen thro' me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass thro' the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. F Shelley. XLV. SPRING MEMORIES. When I hear the the waters fretting, When I see the chesnut letting All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, “ Alas the day !” Once with magical sweet singing, Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves away. In our hearts fair hope lay smiling Sweet as air and all beguiling, And there hung a mist of blue bells on the slope and down the dell, And we talked of joy and splendour That the years unborn would render, And the blackbirds helped us with the song, for they knew it well. Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, April's here, and summer's coming, Don't forget us when you walk a man with men in pride and joy; Think on us in alleys shady When you step a graceful lady; For no fairer days have we to hope for, little girl and boy. "Laugh and play, O lisping waters, Lull our downy sons and daughters, Come, O wind and rock their leafy cradles in thy wanderings coy, When they wake, we'll end the measure With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry, little girl and boy!” Miss Ingelow. XLVI. THE HOLIDAY OF SPRING. I love to saunter out And minstrels of the air, As they mount upon the breeze : In all the joy of indolence, On old baronial trees. When a brightly glowing gleam, In its journey to the main; When the zenith is so blue, That the heavens look down to view The image of their beauty In the mirror of the plain. O delicious is the bliss Edward Capern. |