 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
THE WAYSIDE BROOK.
Not in the depths of the forest glade
Where the elm-tree flingeth its graceful shade,
Where the noontide ray through the alder's bough
Just scatters its sheen on the wave below,
Where no footfall crushes the daisied brink,
Where the wild-bird stoops on its flight to drink,
Where the wood and the upland with melody ring,—
Not there, O brook! do thy waters spring.
Where the elm-tree flingeth its graceful shade,
Where the noontide ray through the alder's bough
Just scatters its sheen on the wave below,
Where no footfall crushes the daisied brink,
Where the wild-bird stoops on its flight to drink,
Where the wood and the upland with melody ring,—
Not there, O brook! do thy waters spring.
Nor yet where the gray old rocks are piled
In the rugged pass of some mountain wild,
Where the mossy stones seem striving to keep
Thy glad stream back from its joyous leap,
While thy silvery foam in the distance gleams
Like a snow-white pennon when morning beams,
And the rush of thy tiny waves might sound
Like a trumpet-call mid the caves around.
In the rugged pass of some mountain wild,
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Thy glad stream back from its joyous leap,
While thy silvery foam in the distance gleams
Like a snow-white pennon when morning beams,
And the rush of thy tiny waves might sound
Like a trumpet-call mid the caves around.
O! not for thee is the shady nook,
Or the mountain channels, thou wayside brook!
By the dusty road thou art speeding along,
Wasting unheeded thy smiles and thy song.
No beauty hast thou for the traveller's eye,
Thou wakest no spell as thou glidest by,
Thy freshness is failing with each summer day:
How canst thou sing on thy lowly way?
Or the mountain channels, thou wayside brook!
By the dusty road thou art speeding along,
Wasting unheeded thy smiles and thy song.
No beauty hast thou for the traveller's eye,
Thou wakest no spell as thou glidest by,
Thy freshness is failing with each summer day:
How canst thou sing on thy lowly way?
Brook of the wayside! though footsteps may crush
The daisies that bend where thy glad waters rush;
Though dust from the highway thy brightness may dim,
Yet ceaseless thou singest thy low chanted hymn.
Brook of the wayside! while musing I trace
Thy humble course onward in freedom and grace,
A lesson of life can thy music impart,
Thou type of the meek and the lowly in heart.
The daisies that bend where thy glad waters rush;
Though dust from the highway thy brightness may dim,
Yet ceaseless thou singest thy low chanted hymn.
Brook of the wayside! while musing I trace
Thy humble course onward in freedom and grace,
A lesson of life can thy music impart,
Thou type of the meek and the lowly in heart.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |