Tuesday, May 13, 2014

"Silver Brook" by Mrs. E. H. McLean (1867)

Silver Brook.

Near the residence of Mrs. H. R. McL—, Jackson, N. Y.


Gally dancing through the meadow,

        Singing sweet a silver song,

Now in sunshine, now in shadow,

        Ever hastes the brook along.

Sister to its rippling waters,

        Knowest thou what tale it tells,

As upon the wind of summer,

        Joyously its music swells?

Sings it of its youth undying

        Halcyon hours—whose golden prime

Fades not, though the years are flying,

        Fails not with the lapse of time.

Sings it of its joyous wanderings,

        When the spring in beauty wakes,

And the earth from death-like slumber,

        Into life and glory breaks?—

Sings it with such gleeful pleasure,

        Of the birth of bud and flower,

Wakens it its gayest measure,

        For sweet Nature's frolic hour?

Is there naught save joy and gladness,

        In the streamlet's gentle strain,

Does no undertone of sadness

        Mingle with a soft refrain?

Yes; it asks of days long vanished,

        Forms which visit it no more,

Bounding steps of rosy childhood

        Sporting on its pebbly shore.

Dost thou miss them, little brooklet,

        Dost thou mourn them? Nevermore—

Will the future hastening onward

        All those vanished forms restore.

O'er the bridge which spans thy bosom,

        Some have slowly, sadly passed

Gathered to the quiet church yard,

        There they calmly sleep at last.

'Mid the rush and roar of battle,

        Some have yielded up their breath,

Where the death shots gleam and rattle,

        Many a brave heart doomed to death.

Nevermore will life's sweet morning,

        To the absent ones return,

Time's swift flight—a silent warning—

        Scarcely heeding they will learn.

Yet when life's dull cares are pressing

        Wearily on heart and brain,

Sometimes like a gentle blessing

        Dreams of youth will come again.

And the brooklet and the meadow,

        Smiling 'neath the summer sky,

Fairer, then, than gleams Elysian

        Bathed in memory's light will lie.

Fare-thee-well then, little streamlet,

        Years will bring no change to thee,

Just as bright will be thy waters,

        Just as sweet thy melody.

Ripple on to meet the river,

        It will haste to meet the sea,

Buried in its depths forever,

        Both will find their destiny.

Troy Times. August 24, 1867: 4 col 1.

No comments:

Post a Comment