POETRY.
THE SOUTHERN ALPS, AFTER RAIN.
[Donis non nnmero, mid arenas.] THE dew clings to the myrtle, yet glistening with rain ; The mist clings to the mountain, expelled from the plain ; The clouds rise to the high tops, but the highest is clear ; And a rare gleam on the snow-field says, sunshine is near.
Now the sheep left in the sheep-fold are munching their hay, And the shepherd, wrapped in his long cloak, does not lead them to-day ; While the dog sits by the fold gate with a watch-keeping eye, As he looks oft to his master, who nods, "By and by ! "
And the sun stares through its vapour, like a moon hid in mist, With a wan eye as a lover, who has failed in his tryst ; And the old sit in their corner, and tell old tales anew ; And I sit in the cosner, and dream of home and you.
Then the traveller paces the gallery, impatient of rest ; And the lover scrawls on the window the name he loves best ; One takes up a thrice-read paper, but flings it away; Not China, and not Fashoda, can hold him to-day. But a bird sings in the garden ; 'tis the first we have heard ; He tells, what his God has told him, the harbinger's word ; And a break comes in the distance ; lo ! a strip there of blue ; 'Tis a rent torn in the cloud-veil, and an Eye looks through.
And the mists roll up the mountains, persistent if slow ; Like dull guests at a banquet, at length they will go ; And the sun will return to-morrow, and clouds disappear ; But still I shall dream of you, love, and long you were here.
There are clouds still to be melted, ere summer has come ; There are leagues still to be travelled, -ere the exile is home ; There are foes still to be conquered, ere life's work is o'er ; But the worst way is behind us ; hope shines on before.
A. G. B.
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