I hear the screams of the water-fowl of solitary north-west
lakes,
I hear the rustling pattering of locusts, as they strike
the grain and grass with the showers of their
terrible clouds,
I hear the Coptic refrain, toward sundown, pensively
falling on the breast of the black venerable vast
mother, the Nile,
I hear the bugles of raft-tenders on the streams of
Kanada,
I hear the chirp of the Mexican muleteer, and the
bells of the mule,
I hear the Arab muezzin, calling from the top of the
mosque,
I hear Christian priests at the altars of their churches
—I hear the responsive base and soprano,
I hear the wail of utter despair of the white-haired
Irish grand-parents, when they learn the death
of their grand-son,
I hear the cry of the Cossack, and the sailor's voice,
putting to sea at Okotsk,
I hear the wheeze of the slave-coffle, as the slaves
march on—as the husky gangs pass on by twos
and threes, fastened together with wrist-chains
and ankle-chains,
I hear the entreaties of women tied up for punishment
—I hear the sibilant whisk of thongs through the air;
I hear the Hebrew reading his records and psalms,
I hear the rhythmic myths of the Greeks, and the
strong legends of the Romans,
I hear the tale of the divine life and bloody death
of the beautiful God, the Christ,
21*
