 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
UP THE ANDROSCOGGIN.
Shining along its windings
I behold the river rush,
Hinting of lakes deep hidden
In a far-off mountain hush.
It flashes their mystery hither;
It carries it onward—whither?
Like the ocean-moan in the heart of a shell,
I hear that steady monotone tell
How all great action reveals at length
Unguessed resources of lonely strength.
I behold the river rush,
Hinting of lakes deep hidden
In a far-off mountain hush.
It flashes their mystery hither;
It carries it onward—whither?
Like the ocean-moan in the heart of a shell,
I hear that steady monotone tell
How all great action reveals at length
Unguessed resources of lonely strength.
Swift traveler, hurrying river,
Whence hast thou come to-day?
From tenantless forests of Errol,
Green glooms of Magalloway;
White lilies, in careless order,
Thronged out through thy rippling border,
And the moss-hung limbs of the aged fir
Waved over thee weirdly, in farewell stir,
And the old cliff-eagle screamed after thee,—
Umbagog's wild nursling, escaped to the sea.
Whence hast thou come to-day?
From tenantless forests of Errol,
Green glooms of Magalloway;
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Thronged out through thy rippling border,
And the moss-hung limbs of the aged fir
Waved over thee weirdly, in farewell stir,
And the old cliff-eagle screamed after thee,—
Umbagog's wild nursling, escaped to the sea.
Where the foot-hills of Waumbek-Methna
Descend to the woodlands of Maine,
Down fliest thou, as unto thy kindred,—
A steed with a loosened rein.
No art may depict the fierce fashion,
The impulse, the plunge, and the passion
Of brown waters bounding through barriers strait,
To gaze on the solemn, crowned summits, that wait,
Advance, then recede into distances gray,
While, moaning and sobered, thou goest thy way.
Descend to the woodlands of Maine,
Down fliest thou, as unto thy kindred,—
A steed with a loosened rein.
No art may depict the fierce fashion,
The impulse, the plunge, and the passion
Of brown waters bounding through barriers strait,
To gaze on the solemn, crowned summits, that wait,
Advance, then recede into distances gray,
While, moaning and sobered, thou goest thy way.
Beyond are the fields of Bethel,
The meadows of perfect green,
Where, a fugitive weary and listless,
Thou sleepest in silvery sheen.
But lower and less are the mountains
That dip their rough feet in thy fountains,
And thy onward journey, thou wilderness stream,
Is as when one wakes from a morning dream
Unto daily labor, while earth and air
Grow dull with a tinge of pervading care.
The meadows of perfect green,
Where, a fugitive weary and listless,
Thou sleepest in silvery sheen.
But lower and less are the mountains
That dip their rough feet in thy fountains,
And thy onward journey, thou wilderness stream,
Is as when one wakes from a morning dream
Unto daily labor, while earth and air
Grow dull with a tinge of pervading care.
Thy song rolled clear, Androscoggin!
Like the rune of a seer it ran:
The story and life of a river
Are the life and the story of man.
The resolve, the romantic endeavor—
The dream that fulfills itself never—
With freshness that urges, and full veins that boil,
Down the hillsides of hope, over levels of toil,
Till the Will that moves under our purpose is done,
And the stream and the ocean have met, and are one!
Like the rune of a seer it ran:
The story and life of a river
Are the life and the story of man.
The resolve, the romantic endeavor—
The dream that fulfills itself never—
With freshness that urges, and full veins that boil,
Down the hillsides of hope, over levels of toil,
Till the Will that moves under our purpose is done,
And the stream and the ocean have met, and are one!
Berlin Falls, N. H., September, 1878.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |