 | At the holy well |  |
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A RHYME OF THE WEATHER.
“Unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.”
—Milton.
—Milton.
Sing the Weather, good Muse—be the theme of my rhymes
That theme of all tempers, that theme of all times!
'Tis our first thought awaking, our last snug abed
(With a twinge in one's toe, or a cold in one's head);
'Tis the speech of the dumb, and the windy scape-grace
All the winds of all weathers he'll blow in your face;
'Tis the password of friendship, wherever we meet:
'Tis the grasp of the right hand, whenever we greet:—
“December!” “Tis June!” “How sultry!” “A breeze!”
“How wet!” or “How dry!” “We shall melt!” “We shall freeze!”
The excuse of the young, the retreat of the old—
For the Weather's so hot, or the Weather's so cold!
That theme of all tempers, that theme of all times!
'Tis our first thought awaking, our last snug abed
(With a twinge in one's toe, or a cold in one's head);
'Tis the speech of the dumb, and the windy scape-grace
All the winds of all weathers he'll blow in your face;
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'Tis the grasp of the right hand, whenever we greet:—
“December!” “Tis June!” “How sultry!” “A breeze!”
“How wet!” or “How dry!” “We shall melt!” “We shall freeze!”
The excuse of the young, the retreat of the old—
For the Weather's so hot, or the Weather's so cold!
All deeds of all days, good and bad ones together,
Believe me—no doubt—they were born of the Weather.
What wars, wasteful, woeful, earth-burdening things,
Have been freaks of the Weather on peoples and kings.
(Those ten years at Troy to a sun-myth are gone,
And Helen herself proved a frail mist of dawn! )
Mere wars of the Weather, the Weather deciding;
And their history's record the Weather's still guiding:—
Though the blood of the truth, and the diamond we think,
'Tis the Weather's the pen, and the Weather's the ink!
Believe me—no doubt—they were born of the Weather.
What wars, wasteful, woeful, earth-burdening things,
Have been freaks of the Weather on peoples and kings.
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And Helen herself proved a frail mist of dawn! )
Mere wars of the Weather, the Weather deciding;
And their history's record the Weather's still guiding:—
Though the blood of the truth, and the diamond we think,
'Tis the Weather's the pen, and the Weather's the ink!
Ah, the Beautiful Weather!—within it is done
Whatever shall open a door for the sun:
The deeds of the heroes whose heraldry lies
In the hearts whose warm prayers write them—up in the skies.
What good gifts are given, what kind words are spoken,
When the blue, through the mist, of Fair Weather gives token!
... Lo, a black host arises, a gloom closes round,
Like the Pit's darkness visible breathed above ground;—
Fierce homicides, wehr-wolves, babe-smotherers, (hark,
What sighs, shrieks, and groans eddy by in the dark!)
With all doers of deeds without name, all together,
Pell-mell, worthy hell, troop the fiends of Foul Weather!
Whatever shall open a door for the sun:
The deeds of the heroes whose heraldry lies
In the hearts whose warm prayers write them—up in the skies.
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When the blue, through the mist, of Fair Weather gives token!
... Lo, a black host arises, a gloom closes round,
Like the Pit's darkness visible breathed above ground;—
Fierce homicides, wehr-wolves, babe-smotherers, (hark,
What sighs, shrieks, and groans eddy by in the dark!)
With all doers of deeds without name, all together,
Pell-mell, worthy hell, troop the fiends of Foul Weather!
From Homer to Whitman—a fall, or a slide,
Of three thousand years (yes, if nothing beside!)—
What poet, who rose like a lark singing loud,
But soared on the sunbeam that conquered the cloud?
If the feet seem a dancer's in flowers and in dew,
All the earth laughed with May-day, whose heavens were blue;
If the verses drip honey and murmur of ease,
In the sunshine the poet went home with the bees;
If the song's a funereal procession of woe,
It came from his heart when the weather was—Oh!
Of three thousand years (yes, if nothing beside!)—
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But soared on the sunbeam that conquered the cloud?
If the feet seem a dancer's in flowers and in dew,
All the earth laughed with May-day, whose heavens were blue;
If the verses drip honey and murmur of ease,
In the sunshine the poet went home with the bees;
If the song's a funereal procession of woe,
It came from his heart when the weather was—Oh!
... That Vennor! you damn him, because, like a fate,
The gods can't control him—he's sure, soon or late:
Personified, presto! Bad Weather
is he,
With your blood down at zero, snow up to your knee!
And “Old Probs,” his mild shadow, you'd flout with disdain,
Dry-parched—just beyond his areas of rain!
(Like a fly safe in amber I fix him this place in—
For Fair or Foul Weather he's left us a Hazein! )
Hold!—
“How hot?” or “How cold?” “It will freeze us?” “'Twill bake us?”
Still the Weather's, for ever, whatever we make us;—
Barometers, weathercocks, each of us keeps
In his bosom, wherever he wakes or he sleeps:
Rain, hail, sleet, or snow, whatever is blown,
The weather-guides differ—true Prophet's our own!
To the cheerful, whose heart goes aloft like a feather,
He could rainbow the Deluge with Beautiful Weather;
(He can butt at the wind with his hat as he goes,
And follow it, flying, wherever it blows!)
To the doleful forever Bad Weather is won,
Though he stand till he die in the gates of the sun:—
Wherever he turns, and whatever the place,
Throws Providence snow-balls or dust in his face:
If he shiver, the Weather's at zero the while;
If he sweat, how the mercury boils—in his bile!
Ah, the Weather, the Weather!—the theme of my rhymes,
Fresh theme of all tempers, fresh theme of all times!
'Tis the atmosphere clasping our living, our moving,
Our dreaming, our doing, our loathing, our loving;
To bed with us going—awaking, arisen,
The Weather is with us, our open air-prison:
We cannot escape it. (I question if whether
When out of the world we'll be out of the weather.)
—But, look up! o'er the tempest the heavens are blue;
Through the cloud round your head let the sunlight stream through,
And if, grumbler, an east-wind your spleen has impaled,
Beware—lest your weathercock's rusty or nailed!
The gods can't control him—he's sure, soon or late:
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With your blood down at zero, snow up to your knee!
And “Old Probs,” his mild shadow, you'd flout with disdain,
Dry-parched—just beyond his areas of rain!
(Like a fly safe in amber I fix him this place in—
For Fair or Foul Weather he's left us a Hazein! )
Hold!—
“How hot?” or “How cold?” “It will freeze us?” “'Twill bake us?”
Still the Weather's, for ever, whatever we make us;—
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In his bosom, wherever he wakes or he sleeps:
Rain, hail, sleet, or snow, whatever is blown,
The weather-guides differ—true Prophet's our own!
To the cheerful, whose heart goes aloft like a feather,
He could rainbow the Deluge with Beautiful Weather;
(He can butt at the wind with his hat as he goes,
And follow it, flying, wherever it blows!)
To the doleful forever Bad Weather is won,
Though he stand till he die in the gates of the sun:—
Wherever he turns, and whatever the place,
Throws Providence snow-balls or dust in his face:
If he shiver, the Weather's at zero the while;
If he sweat, how the mercury boils—in his bile!
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Fresh theme of all tempers, fresh theme of all times!
'Tis the atmosphere clasping our living, our moving,
Our dreaming, our doing, our loathing, our loving;
To bed with us going—awaking, arisen,
The Weather is with us, our open air-prison:
We cannot escape it. (I question if whether
When out of the world we'll be out of the weather.)
—But, look up! o'er the tempest the heavens are blue;
Through the cloud round your head let the sunlight stream through,
And if, grumbler, an east-wind your spleen has impaled,
Beware—lest your weathercock's rusty or nailed!
Mr. Vennor, the late Canadian Weather-prophet, was often popularly held responsible for the bad weather he predicted, and identified with it.
The late General Myers, for a long time Chief Officer of the Signal Service of the United States, was known familiarly as “Old Probs” (Probabilities—from one feature of his weather bulletins). His successor is General Hazen.
Dr. Parr, who had a mental abhorrency of an east wind, is said, (see Samuel Rogers' “Table Talk”) to have been imprisoned at home for several days because of a neighbouring weathercock, on whose indications he relied. Some of his pupils, who were troubled by his company on their rambles, held the doctor in-doors and the weathercock out-of-doors by a judicious nail.
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