Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/433

 1840-50.] BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. 417 Where willows are weeping, Where shadows are sleeping, Where the frown of the mountain lies dark on thy crest ; Arcturus now shining, Arbutus now twining, And " my Castles in Spain " gleaming down in thy breast ; Then disaster'd and dim, Swinging sullen and grim. Where the old ragged shadows of hovels are shed : Creeping in, creeping out, As in dream, or in doubt. In the reeds and the rushes slow rocking the dead. Where all crimson and gold, Slowly home to the fold, Do the fleecy clouds flock to the gateway of Even, Then no longer brook-born. But a way paved with morn. Aye, a bright golden street to the city of heaven ! In the great stony heart Of the feverish mart, Is the throb of thy pulses pellucid to day; By gray mossy ledges, By green velvet edges. Where the corn waves its saber, thou glidest away ; Broad and brave, deep and strong. Thou art lapsing along. And the stars rise and fall on thy turbu- lent tide, As light as the drifted White swan's breast is lifted, Or the June fleet of lilies at anchor can ride. Through the close-ordered ranks On the forest fringed banks, With thy eddies, hke children, at play in the shade ; Then unsheathed in the sun, Where they sleep, one by one, By the flocks of white villages flecking the glade. And yet, gallant River, On-flashing forever, That has ck;ft the broad world on thy way to the main, 1 would part from thee here, With a smile and a tear. And a Hebrew, read back to thy fountain Ah, well I remember, Ere dying December Seemed to fall like a snow-flake, and melt on thy breast. O'er thy waters so narrow The little brown sparrow Used to send his long song to his mate on the nest ; When a silvery skein Wove of snow and of rain. Thou didst wander at will through the bud-laden land — All the air a sweet psalm, And the meadows a palm — As a blue vein meanders a liberal hand. When the schoolmaster's daughter, With her hands scooped the water. And then laughingly proflx3red the crystal to me, O, there ne'er sparkled up A more exquisite cup Than the pair of white hands that were brimming with thee! And there all together. In bright summer weather. Did we loiter with thee, along thy green brink ; 27