Friends and Neighbors; Or, Two Ways of Living in the World

THE VISION OF BOATS.

     ONE morn, when the Day-god, yet hidden
       By the mist that the mountain enshrouds,
     Was hoarding up hyacinth blossoms,
       And roses, to fling at the clouds;
     I saw from the casement, that northward
       Looks out on the Valley of Pines,
     (The casement, where all day in summer,
       You hear the drew drop from the vines),

     White shapes 'mid the purple wreaths glancing,
       Like the banners of hosts at strife;
     But I knew they were silvery pennons
       Of boats on the River of Life.
     And I watched, as the, mist cleared upward,
       Half hoping, yet fearing to see
     On that rapid and rock-sown River,
       What the fate of the boats might be.

     There were some that sped cheerily onward,
       With white sails gallantly spread
     Yet ever there sat at the look-out,
       One, watching for danger ahead.
     No fragrant and song-haunted island,
       No golden and gem-studded coast
     Could win, with its ravishing beauty,
       The watcher away from his post.

     When the tempest crouched low on the waters,
       And fiercely the hurricane swept,
     With furled sails, cautiously wearing,
       Still onward in safety they kept.
     And many sailed well for a season,
       When river and sky were serene,
     And leisurely swung the light rudder,
       'Twixt borders of blossoming green.

     But the Storm-King came out from his caverns,
       With whirlwind, and lightning, and rain;
     And my eyes, that grew dim for a moment,
       Saw but the rent canvas again.
     Then sorely I wept the ill-fated!
       Yea, bitterly wept, for I knew
     They had learned but the fair-weather wisdom,
       That a moment of trial o'erthrew.

     And one in its swift sinking, parted
       A placid and sun-bright wave;
     Oh, deftly the rock was hidden,
       That keepeth that voyager's grave!
     And I sorrowed to think how little
       Of aid from, a kindly hand,
     Might have guided the beautiful vessel
       Away from the treacherous strand.

     And I watched with a murmur of, blessing,
       The few that on either shore
     Were setting up signals of warning,
       Where many had perished before.
     But now, as the sunlight came creeping
       Through the half-opened lids of the morn,
     Fast faded that wonderful pageant,
       Of shadows and drowsiness born.

     And no sound could I hear but the sighing
       Of winds, in the Valley of Pines;
     And the heavy, monotonous dropping
       Of dew from the shivering vines.
     But all day, 'mid the clashing of Labour,
       And the city's unmusical notes,
     With thoughts that went seeking the hidden,
       I pondered that Vision of Boats.