ILLUSTRATIVE READINGS.

READINGS FROM LONGFELLOW.

I. RAIN IN SUMMER.

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and heat,

In the broad, fiery street,

In the narrow lane,

How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,

Like the tramp of hoofs!

How it gushes and struggles out

From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane

It pours and it pours;

And swift and wide,

With a muddy tide,

Like a river down the gutter roars,

The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks

At the twisted brooks;

He can feel the cool

Breath of each little pool;

The fevered brain

Grows calm again,

And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighbouring school

Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,

Till the treacherous pool

Ingulfs them in its whirling

And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side,

Where, far and wide,

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain,

To the dry grass, and the dryer grain,

How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land

The toilsome and patient oxen stand;

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,

With their dilated nostrils spread,

They silently inhale.

The clover-scented gale,

And the vapours that arise

From the well-watered and smoking soil.

For this rest in the furrow after toil,

Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,

More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,

From under the sheltering trees,

The farmer sees

His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops

To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.

He counts it as no sin,

That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these,

The Poet sees!

He can behold

Aquarius old,

Walking the fenceless fields of the air,

And from each ample fold

Of the clouds about him rolled,

Scattering everywhere

The showery rain,

As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold

Things manifold,

That have not yet been wholly told,

Have not been wholly sung or said.

For his thought, that never stops,

Follows the water-drops

Down to the graves of the dead,

Down through the chasms and gulfs profound,

To the dreary fountain-head

Of lakes and rivers, under ground;

And sees them, when the rain is done,

On the bridge of colours seven,

Climbing up once more to heaven,

Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer,

With vision clear,

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Sees forms appear and disappear

In the perpetual round of strange
Mysterious change,

From birth to death, from death to birth,

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;

Till glimpses more sublime

Of things, unseen before,

Unto his wondering eyes reveal

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel,

Turning forevermore

In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

II. THE DAY IS DONE.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain.

Come read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling
And banish the thoughts of day.