Crowds! Crowds! Crowds!
Suddenly here as if come from the clouds
That faded away as they came;
Mad acres of people aflame
With thirst for a morsel of land;
Wild hunters of fortune, whose game
Is ever escaping the hand;
Vast, countless, uncountable throngs
With restless, unrestable feet,
That hurry the ways, full of agonized wrongs,
For the conquest of happiness sweet;
Wild seas of ambition whose waves of desire
On their obstacles mighty continually beat,
Where neither the shore nor the ocean is fixed;
Like thunderous songs of a choir,
Whose murmurs in music repeat;
And confusion and chaos are terribly mingled and mixed.
Dust! Dust! Dust!
Borne in the arms of the gathering gust,
And whirled on the wings of the wind,
The eyes feel the blight of the blind,
And horror comes into the heart;
For nature is far more unkind
Than the thousands that struggle apart.
Dark, wild, inescapable dust,
In fiercest, untamable clouds,
That men into misery helplessly thrust,
And bury in agony-shrouds;
A simoom of sorrow whose pestilent breath
To the strong and the weak, to the young and the old,
Brings despair that is reckless of possible gain,
And the awfullest anguish of death;
Till the soul in its rage uncontrolled,
Droops low in the horrible sickness and sorrow of pain.
But out from the clouds,
Out from the agonized dust that enshrouds;
True kings shall arise who shall reign
In homes on the populous plain!
Great cities shall gather and grow
In glories that never shall wane,
Far over the valleys below.
With merry yet measureless might
They conquer the waste with the gladness that brings
To the desert the newest delight.
The barren shall bloom as the rose, and the land
That is sleeping, a wilderness wasted and wild,
And dreaming to welcome its master's command,
Shall leap at the touch of his hand,
His voice shall obey as a child!
"SING ME A SONG, O, WIND."
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of musical cadence sweet,
Which in the wood around
Shall often and oft repeat;
Soft as an angel's song
That never can give annoy,
Which in the balmy notes
Shall tell me its tales of joy.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of countries beyond the sea,
Which in thy wand'rings oft
Thou pass with a footstep free;
Lands that are ever green
'Neath blaze of the tropic spells,
Bright with their blessed suns,
Where summer forever dwells.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of groves with a verdure fair,
Waving their boughs of green
O'er solitudes grand and rare;
Groves with a stillness sweet,
With cheering and cooling shades,
Where from its cares the race
May rest in the leafy glades.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of birds with a plumage gay,
That with their carols sweet
Give praise to the God of day;
Music of sad refrain,
Though fond in its tender chime,
Thou in thy travels wide
Hast heard in a fairy clime.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of crystalline brooks at play,
Which with the murmurs low
Make sweetest of sounds all day;
Winding through meadows wide,
And blossoming fields between,
Fringed with the willows tall
On emerald banks of green.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of flowers that are fond and fair,
Filling the fields of earth
With beauty and fragrance rare;
Wafting an incense pure
On every breeze that blows,
Drawn from the lily's heart
And soul of the royal rose.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of man in his brightest homes;
Tell if he there meet joy,
Wherever his longing roams;
Tell if there's e'er a place
Where, all his ambition spent,
He toils throughout all his days
And knoweth no discontent.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
For I am a-weary now;
Life, with its woes and cares,
Hangs heavily on my brow;
Sing me a song of cheer,
My heart that is sad to ease;
Sing in thy brightness and joy
With heavenly harmonies!