* * * * *
=John Hay.=[104]
From "Pike County Ballads."
=431.= THE PRAIRIE.
The skies are blue above my head,
The prairie green below,
And flickering o'er the tufted grass
The shifting shadows go,
Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds
Fleck white the tranquil skies,
Black javelins darting where aloft
The whirring pheasant flies.
A glimmering plain in drowsy trance
The dim horizon bounds,
Where all the air is resonant
With sleepy summer sounds,—
The life that sings among the flowers,
The lisping of the breeze,
The hot cicada's sultry cry,
The murmurous dream of bees.
The butterfly—a flying flower—
Wheels swift in flashing rings,
And flutters round his quiet kin
With brave flame-mottled wings.
The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire,
The Phlox' bright clusters shine,
And Prairie-cups are swinging free
To spill their airy wine.
* * * * *
Far in the East, like low-hung clouds
The waving woodlands lie;
Far in the West, the glowing plain
Melts warmly in the sky;
No accent wounds the reverent air,
No foot-print dints the sod,—
Lone in the light the prairie lies,
Rapt in a dream of God.
[Footnote 104: Born in Indiana. Gave up the practice of the law to become
Secretary and Aide-de-camp to President Lincoln. Served briefly in the
Rebellion war with the rank of Colonel, and was afterward Secretary of
Legation at Paris and Madrid, and for some months, Chargé d'Affaires at
Vienna. Subsequently applied himself to literature and journalism.]