The Angel in the Cloud. Edwin W. Fuller

hollow flutterings sounded cool alone.

       To find relief I seized my hat and book,

       And fled into the park. Along a path

       Of smoothest gravel, oval, curving white,

       Between two rows of closely shaven hedge,

       I passed towards a latticed summer-house;

       A fairy bower, built in Eastern style,

       With spires, and balls, and fancy trellis-work,

       O’er which was spread the jasmine’s leafy net,

       To snare the straying winds. Within I fell

       Upon a seat of woven cane, and fanned

       My streaming face in vain. The very winds

       Seemed to have fled, and left alone the heat

       To rise from parchèd lawn and scorching fields,

       Like trembling incense to the blazing god.

       The leaves upon the wan and yellow trees

       Hung motionless, as if of rigid steel;

       And e’en the feath’ry pendula of spray,

       With faintest oscillation, dared not wave.

       The withered flowers shed a hot perfume,

       That sickened with its fragrance; and the bees

       Worked lazily, as if they longed to kick

       The yellow burdens from their patient thighs,

       And rest beneath the ivy parasols.

       The butterflies refrained from aimless flight,

       And poised on blooms with gaudy, gasping wings.

       The fountain scarcely raised its languid jet

       An inch above its tube; the basin deigned

       A feeble ripple for its tinkling fall,

       And rolled the little waves with noiseless beat

       Against the marble side. The bright-scaled fish

       All huddled ’neath the jutting ledge’s shade,

       Where, burnished like their magnet toy types,

       They rose and fell as if inanimate;

       Or, with a restless stroke of tinted fin,

       Turned in their places pettishly around;

       While, with each move, the tiny whirlpools spun

       Like crystal dimples on the water’s face.

       The sculptured lions crouched upon the edge,

       With gaping jaws, and stony, fixèd eyes,

       That ever on the pool glared thirstily.

       Deep in the park, beneath the trees, were grouped

       The deer, their noses lowered to the earth,

       To snuff a cooler air; their slender feet

       Impatient stamping at the teasing flies;

       While o’er their heads the branching antlers spread,

       A mocking skeleton of shade! A fawn,

       Proud of his dappled coat, played here and there,

       Regardless of repose; the silver bell,

       That tinkled from a band of broidered silk,

       Proclaiming him a petted favorite.

       Save him alone, all things in view sought rest,

       And wearied Nature seemed to yield the strife,

       And smold’ring wait her speedy sacrifice.

      The heat grew hotter as I watched its work,

       And with its fervor overcome, I rose,

       And through the grounds, towards an orchard bent

       My faltering steps in full despair of ease.

       Down through the lengthened rows of laden trees,

       Whose golden-freighted boughs o’erlapped the way,

       I hurried till I reached the last confines.

       Here stood a gnarléd veteran, now too old

       To bear much fruit, but weaving with its leaves

       So dense a shade, the smallest fleck of sun

       Could not creep through. Beneath it spread a couch

       Of velvet moss, fit for the slumbers of a king.

       Here prone I fell, at last amid a scene

       That promised refuge from the glaring heat.

       Beyond me stretched the orchard’s canopy

       Of thick, rank foliage, almost drooping down

       Upon the green plush carpet underneath.

       Close at my feet a crystal spring burst forth,

       And rolled its gurgling waters down the glade

       Now spreading in a rilling silver sheet

       O’er some broad rock, then gath’ring at its base

       Into a foamy pool that churned the sand,

       And mingling sparks of shining isinglass,

       It danced away o’er gleamy, pebbly bed,

       Where, midst the grassy nooks and fibrous roots,

       The darting minnows played at hide and seek,

       Oft fluttering upwards, to the top, to spit

       A tiny bubble out, or slyly snap

       Th’ unwary little insect hov’ring near;

       Till, by its tributes widened to a brook,

       It poured its limpid waters undefiled

       In to the river’s dun and dirty waves—

       A type of childhood’s guileless purity,

       That mingling with the sordid world is lost.

      Far in the distance, lofty mountains loomed,

       Their blue sides trembling in the sultry haze.

       From me to them spread varicultured fields,

       That formed a patchwork landscape, which deserved

       The pencil of a Rembrandt and his skill;

       The hardy yellow stubble smoothly shaved,

       With boldness lying ’neath the scorching sun;

       The suffering corn, with tasselled heads all bowed,

       And twisted arms appealing, raised to Heaven;

       The meadows faded by the constant blaze;

       The cattle lying in the hedge’s shade;

       Across the landscape drawn a glitt’ring band,

       Where winds the river, like a giant snake,

       The ripples flashing like his polished scales.

       Above the scene a lonely vulture wheeled,

       Turning with every curve from side to side,

       As if the fierce rays broiled his dusky wings;

       And circling onwards, dwindled to a speck,

       And in the distance vanished out of sight!

       Complete repose was stamped on everything,

       Save where a tireless ant tugged at a crumb,

       To drag it o’er th’ impeding spires of moss;

       And one poor robin, with her breast all pale

       And feather-scarce, hopped wearily along

       The streamlet’s edge, with plaintive clock-like chirp,

       And searching, found and bore the curling worm,

       Up to