Richland beacon., 1873-06-14

y many toned raini
- myriad sweet voices of the rain.
How welcome is its delicate overture
AT evening, when the glowing -mOistur'd west
seals all things with cool promise OF nights rest
AT first it would allure
The earth To kinder mood,
With dainty nattering
Of soft, sweet patrring:
Family now you hear the tramp
Oi the fine drops falling damp
ON the dry, sun-seasoned ground
And the thirsty leaves around.
But anon, lInbucd
With sudden, bounding access
OF passion il rclaNcs
All timider persuasion,
And, with nor preteXt nor occasion,
Its WOOing redOublcs;
And pounds the ground, and bubbles
In sputtcring spray,
Flinging itself in fury
Of flashing white away;
Till the dusty road
Filings perfume dark abroad,
And the grass, and the widc-hung trees,
The vines, the flowers in their beds,
The vivid corn that 10 the breeze
Rustles along the garden-rOws,
Nisibly LIT their heads
And, as the shower wilder grows,
Upleap with answering kisses 10 the rain.
Next the slow and pleasant murmur
Of its subsiding,
As the pulse of the storm beats lirmer,
And the steady rain
Drops into a cadcnced chiding.
Decp-breathing rain,
The sad and ghOstly noise
Wherewith thou dOst compan,-
Thy plaintvc, spiritual voice,
Heard thus al close of day
Through vaults of twilight gray
Doth veX me with sweet pain.
And still my soul Is fan
To know the secret of that ycarning
Which in thine uttcrance hear returning.
Hush, hushl
Break not the dreamy rush
Di the rain;
Touch not the marring doubt
Words bring, to the certainty
of its soft refrain,
But let the flying fringes iout
Their gouts against the pane
And the gurglng throat OF the water-spout
GrOan IN the caves aInaln.
The earth is welded to the shower:
Darkness and awe grid round the bridal-hour!
q many toned rain!
IL hath caught the strain
OF Il wilder tune,
Ere the same n gifts noon,
When dreams and sleep forsake me,
And sudden dread doth wake me,
To hear the booming drums of Heaven beat
The long-roll to battle; when the battle cloud,
With AN echoing loud,
Bursts aSlnder
And the fountains of the air,
lnseaed again, sweep, running, everywhere,
To wrap the world in watery winding-sheet.
q myriad sweet voices OF the rain,
When the airy war doth wane,
And the storm to the east hath flown,
aloaked close in the whrling wind,
There IS a voice still LETT behind
In each heavy yhearted tree,
Charged with fearful memory
OF the vanished rain
The woOdbine's leafy lashes wet
Drip with dews of fresh regret
For the lover that's gone.
All else is STILL
But the stars are listening;
And low O'er the wooded hill
Hangs, upon lstless wing
Outspread, shape, OF damp, blue cloud
Watching, like a bird OF evil
That knows no mercy nor reprieval,
1he SLOW and silent death of the pallid moon
But soon, returning duly,
Dawn whitens the wet hill-tops bluely.
To her vision pure and cold
The nights wild tale is told
On the glistenng leaf, in the mid road pool
The garden mould turned dark and COOL
And the meadows trampled acres.
But hark. how fresh the song of the winged mu
sic-makers!
For now the meanings bitter
Left by the rain make harmony
With the swallows matin-twitter,
And the robins note, like the winds in o tree.
She infant morning breathes sweet BREATH
And with il is blent
The wistful, wild, moist scent
Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nour
isheth.
And behold!
The last reluctant drop Of the storm,
Wrung from the roof is smitten warm
And turned to gold;
For in its veins doth run
The very blood of the bold, unsulied sun.
June Atlantic.