The gabled porch, with woodbine green, The broken millstone at the sill, Though many a rood might stretch between, The truant child could see them still. No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, And yet it winds, we know not why, And turns as if for tree or stone. Perhaps some lover trod the way With shaking knees and leaping heart, And so it often runs astray With sinuous sweep or sudden start. Or one, perchance, with clouded brain Nay, deem not thus, no earthborn will Could ever trace a faultless line; Our truest steps are human still, To walk unswerving were divine! Truants from love, we dream of wrath; O, rather let us trust the more! Through all the wanderings of the path, We still can see our Father's door! THE TWO STREAMS. BEHOLD the rocky wall That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall, In rushing river-tides! Yon stream, whose sources run Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun Through the cleft mountain-ledge. The slender rill had strayed, But for the slanting stone, To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid Of foam-flecked Oregon. So from the heights of Will Life's parting stream descends, And, as a moment turns its slender rill, Each widening torrent bends, One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the Peaceful Sea! ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. HE sleeps not here; in hope and prayer Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, "Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! |