ENCELADUS. UNDER Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; And the old gods, the austere Ah me! for the land that is sown Where ashes are heaped in drifts His head through the blackened rifts See, see! the red light shines! "T is the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Apennines, "Enceladus, arise!" THE CUMBERLAND. Ar anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, "It is better to sink than to yield!" Then, like a kraken huge and black, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, And without a seam! SNOW-FLAKES. Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, A DAY IN JUNE. O GIFT of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Not to be doing, but to be! Through every fibre of my brain, I hear the wind among the trees I see the branches downward bent, And over me unrolls on high The splendid scenery of the sky, Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! Blow, winds! and bend within my reach Longfellow. III. 16 |