O hearts that break and give no sign Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! 11* THE CROOKED FOOTPATH. An, here it is! the sliding rail That marks the old remembered spot, The gap that struck our schoolboy trail, The crooked path across the lot. It left the road by school and church, That parted from the silver birch And ended at the farm-house door. No line or compass traced its plan; 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 rocks across the pathway lie, 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 And so it often runs astray With sinuous sweep or sudden start. Or one, perchance, with clouded brain His track across the trodden field. 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. |