HORTON. THE other night I lay within my bed, I listened to the strange nocturnal cries : And sang hoarse songs; she went away, and then An oyster-man came crying through the streets; And straight, as if I stood on dusky shores, I saw the tremulous silver of the sea Set to some coast beneath the mighty moon. He passed into the silence. Wafts of song Just when my soul was sinking into dream, Alarm of "Fire!" ran through the startled street, And windows were thrown up as it went past. A hasty engine tore along, and trailed A lengthening crowd behind. "Ah, ha," I thought, "That maniac, Fire, is loose; who was so tame, He laughed and blinked within his prison-grate. Has rushed into a hungry crimson fiend: Now he will seize a house, crush in the roof, Who blunts the edge of pain, who brings from Heaven The dead ones to us, took hand in his, my And led me down unto the under-world. We stood beside a drowsy-creeping stream Which ever through a land of twilight stole Nor murmured in its sleep. There was no noise ; But Sleep stood silent, and his eyes were closed. Give me this precious water, that I may Bear to my brothers in the upper-world, And they shall call me 'happy,' 'Sent of God,' And Earth shall rest." Sleep answered, "Every night When I am sitting 'neath the lonely stars, The world within my lap, I hear it mourn I hid my face awhile, then cried aloud, I asked of Joy, as he went laughing past, His orbs were blind with tears-he could not tell. I asked of Grief, as with red eyes he came He started, shook his head, with quick hand drew His mantle o'er his face, and turned away 'Mong the blue twilight-mists." Sleep did not raise His heavy lids, but in a drowsy voice, Like murmur of a leafy sycamore When bees are swarming in the glimmering leaves, Said, "I've a younger brother, very wise, Silent and still, who ever dwells alone— His name is Death: seek him, and he may know." I cried, "O angel, is there no one else?" But Sleep stood silent, and his eyes were closed. Methought, when I awoke, "We have two lives; The soul of man is like the rolling world, And as I hurried through the busy streets, Larks soaring up the ever-soaring sky, And mild kine couched in fields of uncrushed dew. |