War Drums (Scharkie)/Western Winds
WESTERN WINDS.
'Tis night, the moon is round and high,And stars are must'ring on th'ethereal heights;Not as in other times, when all the skySeems but a mass of blinking lights.
The stars are few; perhaps, blown outBy windy spirits from the western wolds,For every hill takes up an airy shout,And sways, and swings its leafy folds.
Loud western spirits!-long they've slept.One summer day, the violet, at their blast,Folded its purple little hands, and steptAcross the present to the past.
And since, they've slept apace, mayhap,Caverned with winter for a short respite,Gathering new purpose from their napTo chase the swallow on its seaward flight.
The oak-tree knows them, for he sighs;The bamboo shrieks adown the spectral night;And swoll'n drap'ries, trailing thro' the skies,Toss like torn standards in the fight.
Blow, spirits! blow; rock ye the hills;Waken the oak and reed in weirdest tone;Yours is the music that the poet feels—Yours is the touch that wakes his own.
Plaint songs of hidden mountain streams,Guild his still harps with a diviner light;And sunny bowers lapt in summer dreams,And stars reeling along the night.
But ye have meaning too,—weird, dim,—Nature's organ pealing it in your ownDeep-toned, unriddled and eternal hymn,Struck to the thought of God alone.