RAIN FOR THE FARMER.

If gently falls the small, soft, lazy rain,

To indoor industries he shrewdly steals;

And in the barn from some neglected grain

The choking chaff the clattering fanner reels;

Or in the shed the sapling ash he peels

For handles for the fork with humor blithe,

Or haply lards the tumbril's heavy wheels,

Or of the harness oils the leather lithe,

Or turns the tuneless stone and grinds the gleaming scythe.

But now the sky is black; and now the Storm

Prepares his legions for the coming fray,

While murmurs low prelude the dread alarm,

As prayed the hosts,— like robed monks who pray

Mid slumb'rous incense in a cloister gray,—

Till from yon cloud the fiery signal given

Enrages all their terrible array.

Jove's flaming car is o'er Olympus driven,

And thunders roll along the threshing floors of heaven.

Hark to the rolling of the sulphurous sea,

Upon its shores its billows beat amain;

In angry tumult, furious to be free,

It rends the cloud with one tremendous strain;

The chasm is closed!— once more!— again in vain!

Again! again! Each time, enraged to yield,

It hurls its threats in throes of Titan pain;

While crouch the cattle‘ neath their oak-tree shield

And horses, frantic-eyed, in terror hoof the field.

The screaming birds, low-flying, seek their nests,

The swaying sport of panic and the gale,

The tall trees, trembling, bend their creaking crests;

The ramping engine shrieks upon the rail —

How helpless all things seem! how poor, how frail!

Until the welkin warfare's awful knell

Is voice of all below in piteous wail.

Alas! for him who toils in Erie's swell,

And for the timid soul which loveth life too well!

Still roars the thunder, still the skies are rent

With frenzied flame,— the swift electric chain,

Jerked clanging backward when its charge is spent.

Such overhead; but now upon the plain

There is a lull, a listening for the rain.

The air grows still; she feels‘ twill not be long;

Like to a poet when o'er heart and brain

The stern, relentless tyranny of Wrong

In knolling tumult broods.— He knows‘ twill break in song

And now at last it comes, crashing and cool

And sweet; well for the earth and what is sowed!

Well for the harvest! See, it fills the pool,

In little streams goes leaping down the road.

And now the winds are joyous, and they goad

Their fallen foe, until he half repeats

His former fury.— One might think it snowed.

And sweep from the roofs like dust from driven streets,

The spirits of the storm, wrapt in their winding-sheets.