1850-60.] JOHN J. PIATT 667 Withia the depot, in the gas-hght gleam- ing* A glare of faces, stands the waituag crowd. Soon will the web of streets be quiet, ly- ing In dew — the human hive no more a -swarm ; And soon the charmc^d silence, Slumber, flying Into the myriad heart, will nestle warm. The whistle screams : the wheels are rumbling slowly ; The path before us glides into the light : Behind, the city kisses Silence holy ; The panting engine leaps into the night. I seem to see each street a mystery grow- ing» Bounded by dream-lands — Time-forgot- ten air : Does no sweet soul, awaking, feel me going ? Loves no sweet heart in dreams to keep me there ? THE WESTERN PIONEER.* Into the prairies' boundless blossom, Into the wide West's sunburnt bosom, The eai'liest emigrants came : The flowers, like sunny miracles, grew Before them, fragrant, from the dew, Filling the grass like flame ! From some old land of song and life — Of man, in manhood's glowing strife, Departing all alone. And journeying with the journeying sun.
- The bees are said to have ever swarmed westward be-
fore the steps of the whites. They came — their busy empire won — Before the white man known. The Indian saw the moving bees. From flower to flower, in dream-like breeze Blowing their pilgrim way ; Or, deep in honey of the flower. Hanging in sunshine hour by hour, Dream through the dreaming day. He saw the future's garment gleam O'er mounds of tribes and legend-stream — O'er the sweet waste of flowers ; He saw his hunting ground — the past ! Lit with the domes of cities vast — Glory of spires and towers ! Those other bees ! He felt — he saw, With sorrowing eye, in dreamy awe, The blossom of the West Thrill with sunny-toiling bees Of busy Freedom, happy Peace — Wide blessings and the bless'd. They come ! They came ! Lo ! they are here! The Indian heart-beat every where Starts echoes wild no more ; The leaves have fallen from his trees Of life : dead leaves, in every breeze. Rustle for evermore ! MOONRISE. 'Tis midnight, and the city lies With dreaming heart and closed eyes : The giant's folded hands at rest. Like Prayer asleep, are on his breast. From window, hushed, I see alone The tide-worn streets so silent grown ; The dusty footpi-ints of the day Are blessed with dew and steal away.
