These, and far more than these, The Poet sees ! He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air; And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Folows 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 colors seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; 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, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin. With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Thousands of years in Indian seas Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! Those silver bells Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells In some obscure and sunless place, And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, Beneath the burning, tropic skies, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of dead centuries. But, lo! thy door is left ajar ! Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! And, at the sound, Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, |