Page:Poets of John Company.djvu/93

Rh

Leave me, my friend—for now they suit right well
 * The hour—the gloomy scene—and mine own mood:

The rain will not return—too late it fell,
 * Besides I've a great coat—don't think me rude;

But au revoir—you dine out too—'tis late; And the Fitz-Huggenses, you know, don't wait.

Pat, pat—how that mare steps out with the buggy;
 * Charles is a judge of horses—so a'nt I,

Whew! what a night—now damp and chill, now muggy,
 * And what a scene around and what a sky.

As if sad Nature wove a funeral pall For one of her worst handyworks—Bengal.

Even as I speak—the driving rain descends.
 * Not in a gentle sentimental shower.

But one that drenches to the finger ends
 * In less that half the tenth part of an hour,

Roaring and hissing as it falls—in fact A specimen of "Heaven born" cataract.

And as it rattles down a mist arises
 * From out the hot breast of the batter'd ground,

Hiding the "Palaces" of sorts and sizes
 * That spread in whitewash'd majesty around;

Hiding the city lights, the dome, the fort; All that is more than three yards off, in short.

And just within that distance, I behold
 * A figure grizzled and austere, like Time,

Save that 'tis twice as grim, and twice as old,
 * A creature that must sure have seen the prime

Of the fresh, beautiful earth—and after that Left Noah's Ark ashore on Ararat.