A RIVER IN FLOOD.

What saith the river to the rushes grey,

Rushes sadly bending,

River slowly wending,

Where in darkest glooms his bed we lay?

Up the cave moans the wave,

For ever, ever fled away!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

A RIVER IN FLOOD.

N their wild route from the mountains,
From the gorges, and the caves,
Where the deluge-forges slaver,

And the pent squall howls and raves;

Where the fanged ravines are wrangling

With the furious torrent's force,

Till, like foaming serpents tangling,

They twist downward in their course.

Swallowing up the gorse in throatfuls,

Tugging at the rooted pines, Shivering rocky cells asunder,

Where the gold-gnome sows his mines. Ho! the headlong floods are coming,

Like to armied monsters free,

With their broken chains all foam-flecked,

As they rage on to the sea.

There, there where the land would lock them

In a foeman's strong embrace;

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56

A RIVER IN FLOOD.

Hark! how they roar with vengeance!
How they tear their bearded face!
How the huge rocks fly before them!
And the trees die on their breast,
Stretching out their limbs, all lifeless,
'Mid the yellow, mantling yeast.

And the marsh-bird tips the torrent,
But, with sudden, upward spring,
Flies the danger, drenched all over,
Barely saved by nervous wing.
Beds of leaves, like stately carpets,
Swim along the watery waste,
Breaking into bronzy fragments
In their heedless, hurrying haste;
Whilst the brute-flood loudly mutters,
In his armed waters, strong;
And, like distant victor-thunder,

Hums his hoarse, deep-chested song.

Vainly does the pale moon woo him,

And the clustering stars of night;

Heeds he naught the peerless lady,

Nor her sweet nymphs, fair and bright.

And he hates the doting willows,

As they fawn down at his feet,
With their long hair all dishevelled,
As they join his wave-men fleet.

For the flood is a barbarian

Tawny, bearded, rude, and bold,

With a brawn as dark as iron,

And a heart as hard and cold; And he carries sword and cestus,

And, with body stark and bare, Ever gasping, calleth earthward,

For a foe to do or dare.

And he dashes his huge form

Against bend, and bank, and keep;

And he loves to meet a barricade

And to clear it at a leap!

Or to sweep it with a cannonade,
All shotted close with foam,
And with a roar of victory

To charge it fiercely home!

Then, on again, all mane-tossed,
Till he meets the mighty sea;
But ah! then he proves a coward,
As such braggarts ever be.
And that trampler of the rivulet—
That roarer at the skies-
'Fore the waves of the great ocean,
Like a trembling dell-wind, cries.

And he yields his refted plunder,
And he cowers beneath the tide;
And so, like a scourged oppressor,
He disgorges all his pride!
Till then the meanest, meaner,
And at his captor's beck,

He guides the foot that tramps him,
Mired and muddy, to his neck!

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STREAMLETS.

Thus, may the peasant's master,
Take a lesson from the flood,
When he tramps his princedom faster
Than is for the people's good.

Let him know there's One awaits him,

Ay, already at his door:

The pride-slayer-the Almighty

The avenger of the poor!

THOMAS Davis.

STREAMLETS.

THROUGH the mossy sods and stones,
Stream and streamlet hurry down,
A rushing throng! A sound of song
Beneath the vault of heaven is blown!
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones

Of this bright day, sent down to say
That Paradise on earth is known,
Resound around, beneath, above;
All we hope, and all we love,
Finds a voice in this blithe strain,
Which wakens hill, and wood, and rill,

And vibrates far o'er field and vale,

And which echo, like the tale

Of old times, repeats again.

SHELLEY, from GOETHE,