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Here is a pretty piece. It was written, thirty-four years ago, by a class-mate and friend; but it sounds “as good as new.” If he should happen to see it here, he will, I know, excuse the alteration of two lines, which, though quite proper for college-boys studying Latin and Greek, are not quite proper for children in a Christian Sunday School.
THE RAIN-DROP AND THE POET.
Come, tell me, little noisy friend,
That knockest at my pane,
Whence is thy being? Where dost end,
Thou little drop of rain?
I come from the deep,
Where the dark waves sleep,
And their beauty ever the sea-pearls keep;
I go to the brow
Of the mountain-snow,
And trickle again to the depths below.
But, wanderer, how didst win thy way
From caverns of the sea?
Did not thy sisters say thee nay,
Sweet harbinger of glee?
With his far-darting flame,
The Day-king came,
And bore me away in a cloudy frame;
And I sailed in the air,
Till the zephyrs bare
Me hither to hear thy minstrel-prayer.
And why dost change that tiny form,
Thou sweetest ocean-child?
Why art the snow in winter-storm,
The rain in summer mild?
The breath from above
Of Him who is Love,
In the snow and the rain-storm bids me to rove,
Lest the young-budding earth
Be destroyed in the birth,
And Famine insult over Plenty and Mirth.
And wilt thou, little one, bestow
The minstrel’s small request?
Wilt come when cares of earth below
Press on his aching breast?