 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE TELEGRAPH WIRES.
Through the wide window, from my easy chair,
I see the telegraph wires beyond the trees,
Like spider-threads suspended in the air,
Played on at will by every passing breeze;
Sounding to quickening ears their cadenced song,
Now faint and tremulous, now bold and strong.
I see the telegraph wires beyond the trees,
Like spider-threads suspended in the air,
Played on at will by every passing breeze;
Sounding to quickening ears their cadenced song,
Now faint and tremulous, now bold and strong.
599
Wind-smitten, strange the secret tales they tell,
Harp-strings of iron, resounding day and night;
Their music rises in harmonious swell,
Or sinks in ecstasy of deep delight;
And I who listen to them here to-day,
Know well what songs they sing, what words they say.
Harp-strings of iron, resounding day and night;
Their music rises in harmonious swell,
Or sinks in ecstasy of deep delight;
And I who listen to them here to-day,
Know well what songs they sing, what words they say.
When battles raged, along these wires there rang
The victors' cheers, the victims' wild despair;
The crash of musketry, the sabres' clang,
The boom of cannon, pulsed themselves in air;
But these have gone, and in these peaceful days,
Their melodies befit our duller ways.
The victors' cheers, the victims' wild despair;
The crash of musketry, the sabres' clang,
The boom of cannon, pulsed themselves in air;
But these have gone, and in these peaceful days,
Their melodies befit our duller ways.
Listen! strange tune for an electric harp,
Which voices there in tame, monotonous tones—
“Come down to dinner, Joe, at seven sharp;
You'll meet with Spenser, Livingston and Jones.”
So—“fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.” Well,
Many find music in a dinner-bell.
Which voices there in tame, monotonous tones—
“Come down to dinner, Joe, at seven sharp;
You'll meet with Spenser, Livingston and Jones.”
So—“fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.” Well,
Many find music in a dinner-bell.
Here comes a purer song, a longing strain
To carry comfort to a weary heart,
And calm remorse, and soothe the aching brain—
“Come back, my son, and nevermore depart.
Stretch not your mother's heart-strings on the rack;
All is forgiven now—come back! come back!”
To carry comfort to a weary heart,
And calm remorse, and soothe the aching brain—
“Come back, my son, and nevermore depart.
Stretch not your mother's heart-strings on the rack;
All is forgiven now—come back! come back!”
A jubilant melody dances on the strings,
Light, gay and lively, though the air be brief;
Were 't in the sender's power, the lightning wings
Would move much faster. Of all men the chief,
Hear him proclaim it: “Brothers, give us joy;
Mother and child are doing well—a boy!”
Light, gay and lively, though the air be brief;
Were 't in the sender's power, the lightning wings
Would move much faster. Of all men the chief,
Hear him proclaim it: “Brothers, give us joy;
Mother and child are doing well—a boy!”
600
Our life to-day begins, to-morrow ends:
Here is a plaintive strain in minor key;
A wailing dirge the cabined lightning sends,
Mourning a spirit from its fetters free—
“Our father died to-day at eighty-five”—
Died! 'twas his clay; the soul is yet alive.
Here is a plaintive strain in minor key;
A wailing dirge the cabined lightning sends,
Mourning a spirit from its fetters free—
“Our father died to-day at eighty-five”—
Died! 'twas his clay; the soul is yet alive.
And now, not music, but discordant notes
That shake at first with mirth, then thrill with pain;
Exultant laughter, mixed with mothers' moans,
And wails of children, starved through greed of gain—
“Hold on to every grain; wheat jumped to-day;
To-morrow brings a famine price—hurray!”
That shake at first with mirth, then thrill with pain;
Exultant laughter, mixed with mothers' moans,
And wails of children, starved through greed of gain—
“Hold on to every grain; wheat jumped to-day;
To-morrow brings a famine price—hurray!”
And as to many tunes their songs are sung,
With varying words that change from sad to gay,
Never remaining mute, nor one unstrung,
The electric harp-strings musically play;
And joy and grief and pain and vulgar thought
To audible music by the winds are wrought.
With varying words that change from sad to gay,
Never remaining mute, nor one unstrung,
The electric harp-strings musically play;
And joy and grief and pain and vulgar thought
To audible music by the winds are wrought.
Harp-strings of iron, whose notes the bearer thrill,
Track of the lightning-courier's constant flight,
Obedient servant of the human will,
Sound your weird melodies by day and night.
You feel not, hear not, as the wild notes ring,
The words you utter, nor the songs you sing.
Track of the lightning-courier's constant flight,
Obedient servant of the human will,
Sound your weird melodies by day and night.
You feel not, hear not, as the wild notes ring,
The words you utter, nor the songs you sing.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |