From furrows brown The green blades shoot, that shall hereafter glow, King March rides blustering o'er dale and mead, And jocund May, Crowned with white blossoms, scatters in her track Our dross through furnace passing, comes out, - gold - All The Year Round. A SAIL ON THE CLOUDS. THER HERE'S a beautiful cloud-fleet passing by, Let's take a sail o'er the blue expanse, And visit the mystery-world. We'll sail and sail o'er the spacious sea With the pilot Breeze to steer, And never come back to the earthland sweet. We'll visit the place where the little dame And we'll see how he fills his treasure jars Where red and yellow and crimson tints With the royal colors vie. For these he must use when the harvest moon And the time has come to brighten the earth We'll watch the sun as his chariot rolls Far down the horizon's rim, And he carries the beautiful day along, And earthland is growing dim. Then we'll sail to the North where the Major Bear Is holding his dipper of rain, And we'll listen to hear how the flowers laugh As he empties it over the plain. We'll explore the place where the comet abides Or plays coquette with the polar star, Or dances with meteors bold. Then we'll skim the cream from the milky way, And lay us to sleep upon downy beds, And dream while the night shall last. Then waking, we'll sail to the reddening East, And watch the sun with his prancing steeds Then again o'er the boundless blue we'll float, And never come back to the earthland sweet, O! the long, slender spears, how they quiver and flash Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash Thick the battle-drops fall - but they drip not in blood; O, the rain, the plentiful rain! The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare, But a rushing of waters is heard in the air, And a rainbow leaps out in the sky. Hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves, eaves. O, the rain, the plentiful rain! See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane, And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain At the tune on the skylight, far over his head, And away, far from men, where high mountains tower, And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower, And the hill-torrents lift up their voice: And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light : O, the rain, the plentiful rain! And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain, How days of clear shining will come after rain, Waving meadows, and thick-growing wheat; So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears, Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears: O, the rain, the plentiful rain! The Spectator TRIU THE RAINBOW. RIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven! Can all that optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamed of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow? When science from creation's face What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, Have told why first thy robe of beams When o'er the green undeluged earth, |