PS 3505 
 .H663 
 B4 
 1904 
 Copy 1 
 
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 BE SINCERE, 
 
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 OTHER VERSES, 
 
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BE SINCERE. 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER VERSES. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES BRYANT (^HENEY. 
 
 1904. 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 TWO CoDles Received 
 JUL 80 1904 
 
 i CoDYrteht Entry 
 
 'Z 
 
 i. I ^ I 
 COPY B 
 
 75 3 JTS i 
 
 19 cu. 
 
 Copyright, 1904. 
 By CHARLES BRYANT CHENEY. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 1869 . 
 
 Be Sincere 
 
 (( 
 
 The Golden Bath 
 
 
 Enduring Friendship 
 
 1870 . 
 
 The Old School-house 
 
 It 
 
 Alder Brook 
 
 " 
 
 . The Fallen Pine 
 
 1875 . 
 
 , Lost Fancies 
 
 1879 . 
 
 The Poetry Mill 
 
 1880 . 
 
 Thanks for a Gift . 
 
 I88I . 
 
 . The Parting 
 
 1883 . 
 
 . Reliability 
 
 1888 . 
 
 , Intermeddling 
 
 .897 . 
 
 . Disappointment 
 
 1869 . 
 
 . Floating Away 
 
 I87I . 
 
 . The Ambrotype 
 
 1874 . 
 
 . September 
 
 
 Lake Morey 
 
 1897 . 
 
 . Quality 
 
 1899 . 
 
 . Burial of Alaric 
 
 " . 
 
 A Winter Morning in Vermont 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 5 
 6 
 8 
 
 9 
 10 
 12 
 13 
 
 14 
 19 
 20 
 21 
 22 
 23 
 
 24 
 
 25 
 26 
 27 
 28 
 29 
 
BE SINCERE. 
 
 Some find in life a ramble merely, 
 Amid fair gardens, rich with bloom; 
 
 \\'ith those to lead, who love them dearly, 
 From childhood's cradle to the tomb. 
 
 Some find a journey, tiresome ever, 
 'Neath heavy burdens, care and pain: 
 
 To make them light, all should endeavor, 
 And keep the pathway smooth and plain. 
 
 Remember many hearts are weary 
 
 Of frequent change from hope to fear, 
 
 And many homes are blank and dreary. 
 Because some one is not sincere. 
 
 Then prompt and square should be your dealing: 
 Act honor's part each passing day; 
 
 Your speech should just express your feeling; 
 Say what you mean! Mean what you say! 
 
 But let your words be words of cheering. 
 And firmly stand for what is right; 
 
 Oppose all wrong, and, without fearing. 
 Fight when you must, but seldom fight. 
 
THE GOLDEN BATH. 
 
 Thus swell your own and others' pleasure; 
 
 Help bring the smile and check the tear; 
 Speak simple truth; that priceless treasure; 
 
 In word and action, be sincere. 
 
 THE GOLDEN BATH 
 
 A RIDDLE IN RHYME. 
 
 This tells what happened at the bath, 
 
 Close by a verdant wood; 
 'Tw^as not a famous health resort. 
 
 Yet bathers found it good. 
 
 They thicker in its water swarmed 
 
 Than fishes in the sea; 
 Regardless all of race or sex, 
 
 Of high or low degree. 
 
 The beggar swam beside the prince; 
 
 The black beside the white; 
 The old and young, the strong and weak, 
 P^ach had an equal right. 
 
 The maiden with the fiowing hair, 
 The hodman gray and lame, 
 
THE GOLDEN BATH. 
 
 The sick and well, the rich and poor, 
 All comers fared the same. 
 
 The shade of Venus must have dwelt 
 
 Within that pool serene, 
 And given beauty to her guests, 
 
 As change could soon be seen. 
 
 It mattered not how fair the face. 
 
 For it still fairer grew; 
 Each garment wore a richer gloss. 
 
 As if 'twere dyed anew. 
 
 This bathing scene was strangely still; 
 
 No noisy mirth was heard; 
 Nor broken was the Sabbath hush 
 
 By loud or angry word. 
 
 Some swimmers went and others came; 
 
 Not once did accord cease; 
 And all were gainers, ev'ry one, 
 
 In that fair haunt of peace. 
 
 This is the tale; now try who will 
 
 The answer to attain; 
 The riddle yields to him who can 
 
 The golden bath explain. 
 
ENDURING FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 If those who are on Passion's wave, 
 Or Pride's high billow tossed, 
 
 Would seek some quiet pool of Peace, 
 I'hey'd gain much joy that's lost. 
 
 If bitter strife could pass a\vay, 
 And man with man be fair, 
 
 Time would upon each face neglect 
 To carve the lines of care. 
 
 If outward beauty did not gain, 
 
 There is another kind, 
 And peaceful life, by daily touch. 
 
 Would fast adorn the mind. 
 
 ENDURING FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Written in an Album. 
 
 A trifling mark will oft recall 
 Some friend of days gone by. 
 
 But better far that friends should not 
 Let early friendship die. 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 It nestled by the winding road, 
 
 In spot untrimmed and wild; 
 I see the place as clearly now 
 
 As when a happy child. 
 
 The summer woods and pastures green, 
 
 That cool and leafy glade, 
 Where patient cows slow chewed the cud, 
 
 And pupils often strayed. 
 
 The mountain brook that roared so loud 
 
 Along its rocky way; 
 The mossy bank, and little knolls. 
 
 Where we were wont to play. 
 
 The long, steep hill with drifted snows, 
 
 So fit for wintry sport. 
 Where hardy lads came coasting fast, 
 
 Or built the frigid fort. 
 
 The low, square building, dark with age, 
 
 Amid these scenes I see; 
 While in that room, the teacher's face 
 
 Comes smiling back to me. 
 
ALDER BROOK. 
 
 The desks and seats were rudely made 
 
 Of strong, unpainted planks; 
 And when the session near'd its close 
 
 We felt like giving thanks. 
 
 And though the years have come and gone 
 
 Since there we daily met, 
 The mem'ry of those girls and boys 
 
 Is fresh and pleasing yet. 
 
 ALDER BROOK. 
 
 Rising in the woodland, 
 
 High up on the hill. 
 Alder Brook comes shyly, 
 
 As a little rill; 
 Gliding 'mid the grasses, 
 
 Wetting ev'ry blade. 
 Purling o'er the pebbles. 
 
 In the deepest shade. 
 
 Wand'ring in the pasture, 
 Past the grazing flocks; 
 
 Giving of its water 
 To the thirsty ox; 
 
ALDER BROOK. 
 
 Creeping 'neath the roadway, 
 Where the fishes hide; 
 
 Bursting back to sunlight, 
 Where they may be spied. 
 
 Winding through the meadow, 
 
 Forming pool and crook, 
 Border'd thick with bushes. 
 
 Ripples Alder Brook. 
 Spreading broad and placid, 
 
 For one moment still. 
 Rushing to its labor 
 
 In the busy mill. 
 
 Onward through the valley, 
 
 Gaining size and strength, 
 Leaping o'er the ledges. 
 
 Tumbling down at length; 
 Casting off the foam-flecks 
 
 In some quiet nook, 
 Forward, to the ocean. 
 
 Flows the Alder Brook. 
 
THE FALLEN PINE. 
 
 De iHortuis nil nisi botiur 
 
 The once stately pine, with a thousand tufts, 
 
 Has lost its life in some raging blast. 
 And its prostrate wreck is a mournful sight 
 As I revisit the place at last. 
 
 While among the boughs, so brown today, 
 The squirrels frolic the hours away, 
 And nimbly their coats and tails display 
 In the broken top of the old pine tree. 
 
 'T was a chosen spot where this chieftain stood, 
 
 And there, content at my quiet plays. 
 For the future were made some wondrous plans, 
 Ere I was used to life's sterner ways. 
 Then sunshine dappled the turf below 
 With changing pattern no loom could show, 
 As fickle breezes blew brisk or slow 
 Through the swaying arms of the old pine tree. 
 
 On a mimic height was a castle fine, 
 The dry cones forming its lofty wall. 
 
 And my airy castles rose higher still. 
 
 Though time has marred or toppled them all. 
 
LOST FANCIES. 
 
 By a single thread the spider hung, 
 To his filmy webs the dew drops clung, 
 And many birds sweet melodies sung 
 In the safe retreats of the old pine tree. 
 
 But the pine is dead, and its glory gone. 
 
 Now ruins lie in a wasting pile, 
 Where I meant to sit in the cooling shade 
 And think of those early times awhile. 
 The tangled branches are growing sere 
 And crumble away to dust each year, 
 But I'll remember there was no peer 
 In the famous days of the old pine tree. 
 
 LOST FANCIES. 
 
 When fleeting fancies spring to life, 
 Amid the world's unceasing strife. 
 
 The claims of labor oft prevent 
 A record of their full intent. 
 
 And care's cold dampness rusts them o'er, 
 As mem'ry holds them in her store. 
 
 Till half their brightness disappears 
 Ere made complete in later years. 
 
14 THE POETRY MILL, 
 
 Thus some creations of the brain, 
 Evoked when in its choicest vein, 
 
 Live but to perish at their birth. 
 Be they of great or Uttle worth. 
 
 Still other lines are traced by pen. 
 But crudely done — not finished then- 
 
 And, careless, to one side are tossed. 
 Forgotten, and forever lost. 
 
 Unless some future writer find 
 The self-same fancy in his mind; 
 
 A link in thought's un-ending chain, 
 For ages dead, but born again. 
 
 THE POETRY MILL. 
 
 A LEGEND OF SUGAR RIVER. 
 
 'Tis fifty years, or a little more. 
 
 Since a clever chap, well filled with lore. 
 Dwelt near the stream which wended its way 
 
 On to the west, the same as today. 
 He wielded a poet's ready pen 
 
 And oft delighted his fellow men 
 
THE POETRY MILL. 
 
 With witty verse, or some odd conceit, 
 
 That, like its author, was hard to beat. 
 But one wild fancy he guarded well, 
 
 So never a hint or whisper fell 
 From his prudent lips, about his plan 
 
 To make a mill that should beat a man; 
 And grind ideas, as a mill grinds grain, 
 
 And sort them out, as the human brain. 
 Upon due reflection, thus and so. 
 
 Places its notions where they should go. 
 "A machine that's made with perfect parts 
 
 Must run like a clock, when once it starts. 
 And to its products there'll be no end!" 
 
 Thus reasoned wisely our ancient friend. 
 "The finer poems are oft sublime. 
 
 While music adds to the simplest rhyme; 
 So verses and tunes alone shall be 
 
 Produced from my magic mill by me!" 
 
 He wrought in secret till it was done. 
 
 The pieces connected, one by one. 
 And ev'ry spring, and lever, and wheel. 
 
 Mirrored his face in the polished steel. 
 He felt so proud of that neat device 
 
 That Earth itself was too small a price 
 For cams, and gearing, and crank, to turn; 
 
 Ah! truly, it was a fine concern. 
 
THE POETRY MILL. 
 
 "Fish food makes the brain!" this genius said, 
 
 "And only fish shall my mill be fed; 
 It then will numerous quatrains grind, 
 
 Eclipsing those of the human mind!" 
 (The fact escaped him it will be shown 
 
 That a thing of brains should run alone.) 
 With angler's patience, and crafty hand, 
 
 He strode through bushes, and mud, and sand; 
 The fish bit well at his baited hook; 
 
 He caught of evVy kind in the brook; 
 Surely enough to fashion a lay. 
 
 And make him famous beyond his day. 
 
 He filled the hopper with this rare grist 
 
 And grasped the crank in his nervous fist. 
 Started it slowly, then turned it fast, 
 
 And rhymes were made by machine at last. 
 (With perfect metre the first came out; 
 
 Quite likely t'was made from some fine trout.) 
 The fluent words, on his chosen theme. 
 
 Came faster than he had dared to dream; 
 A vision of volumes filled his eye. 
 
 The wares from his mill were passing by; 
 The names of the olden bards grew dim 
 
 At thought of the honors due to him. 
 He ceased to labor, and sought his pen. 
 
 That he might treasure for other men 
 
THE POETRY MILL. I 7 
 
 The first gems of verse from his machine, 
 The strangest production ever seen. 
 
 But the stubborn thing refused to wait, 
 
 Or even reduce the rapid rate 
 At which the pulleys untiring whirled, 
 
 As if in haste to supply the world. 
 His vision faded, as clouds disperse; 
 
 For various fish made varied verse, 
 And discord smote on the rythmic air. 
 
 As misfit measures declined to pair; 
 Some lines had three feet, and some had six; 
 
 A shocking medley no skill could fix. 
 
 In silent horror the poet gazed, 
 
 With eyes dilated and senses dazed; 
 And thus to nothing his labor came, 
 
 No wreath of triumph, no blaze of fame; 
 Success and fortune took fiight at once. 
 
 And now the genius was named a dunce. 
 The mill kept running and proved a bane. 
 
 Jading the builder, body and brain, 
 Till borne away to the river's side 
 
 And sadly sunk in the sluggish tide. 
 
 Then lads, who courted their fair young maids. 
 And lingered till midnight cast its shades. 
 
THE POETRY MILL. 
 
 Were wont to mention, in solemn tone, 
 
 The murmurings heard, as when alone 
 They passed where poesy's mystic mill 
 
 Kept grinding couplets, both good and ill. 
 That rose from the stream, with muffled sound, 
 
 But seemingly rose from out the ground. 
 Sands drifted over the poet's pride 
 
 Till they choked its voice, but it defied 
 The ice of winter and floods of spring, — 
 
 Not dead, but buried, this gifted thing. 
 
 Half a century, or more, soon sped. 
 
 When currents, changing the river's bed, 
 Had swept its sands to the other shore; 
 
 The mill was bare in the stream once more. 
 A stranger spied and secured the prize. 
 
 The queerest puzzle beneath the skies; 
 That fine creation, now badly marred. 
 
 The first and only metallic bard. 
 Admiring greatly the skill displayed 
 
 By the unknown one who plann'd and made 
 Such costly toy, (which he later sank,) 
 
 He oiled the bearings and touched the crank. 
 Wondrous invention! it ran as true 
 
 And hummed as lively as when 'twas new, 
 And crazy lines of poetry fell 
 
 On the ears of him who loves them welL 
 
THANKS FOR A GIFT. 
 
 And thus it comes that we get its rhyme 
 In Argus columns, from time to time; 
 
 Its fishy verses are not all made, 
 But urge a little the speed of trade. 
 
 THANKS FOR A GIFT. 
 
 On receiving a watch case, containing a small bouquet. 
 
 A slipper of silver 
 
 With trimmings of blue; 
 
 For present so dainty, 
 I'm grateful to you. 
 
 A cluster of leaflets. 
 
 And rosebuds aglow. 
 Deck gayly this beauty 
 
 At heel and at toe. 
 
 Rich odors are blended 
 Where no foot has pressed; 
 
 How fragrant the off'ring: 
 The donor I've guessed. 
 
 May cloudlets of silver 
 Fleck lightly your sky. 
 
2 THE PARTING. 
 
 And brightest blue heaven 
 Greet ever your eye. 
 
 The sides of your pathway, 
 May roses adorn, 
 
 But where the/^<?/ wanders. 
 Grow never a thorn. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 Hand in hand at the old mill door. 
 Tear drops clinging in each bright eye, 
 
 Voices lost in the wheels' dull roar. 
 Sadly speaking their fond good-bye. 
 
 Sunlight fell on his chestnut hair. 
 Tinted her lighter locks with gold; 
 
 He was manly, and she was fair, — 
 Words of parting may not be told. 
 
RELIABILITY. 
 
 An ample spring, in shaded nook, 
 
 Hid where the meadow reached the bank; 
 
 There, bending o'er its tranquil face, 
 In youth I often knelt and drank. 
 
 And later on, in manhood's prime, 
 I've trod the winding path of old, 
 
 Have parted brakes and brambles thick, 
 To taste that water, sweet and cold. 
 
 And ever yet my eager lips 
 
 Have found it welling just the same; 
 For summer's bright and fervent sun 
 
 Warmed not the sources whence it came. 
 
 No sultry days, or rainless weeks. 
 Could dry the fountain by the hill. 
 
 Take vigor from its liquid wealth. 
 Or shrink the volume of its rill. 
 
 True friendship, like the changeless spring. 
 Gives draughts of comfort, fresh and clear, 
 
 When strongly flows its constant stream, 
 Life's way to soften and to cheer. 
 
INTERMEDDLING. 
 
 How gladly turn the weary feet 
 
 To where its greeting waits once more; 
 
 The welcome smile, the quick'ned step, 
 The hand's kind pressure, as of yore. 
 
 If deeply down its sources lie 
 
 The eye's bright moisture tells the tale, 
 As, parting to our future ways. 
 
 We trust the fountain may not fail. 
 
 INTERMEDDLING. 
 
 When friends do differ, known to all. 
 They quarrel more and more; 
 
 But if to silence they agree, 
 Their feud is well nigh o'er. 
 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 The human mind, that work so grand, 
 
 Fails to achieve what it has planned; 
 This sets the mental door ajar, 
 
 And sweet Content soon flies afar; 
 Then Disappointment enters in, 
 
 A ruthless ruin to begin. 
 How fast the torment gathers force! 
 
 It matters little whence its source; 
 Be it a sudden loss of wealth. 
 
 The hopeless gloom of failing health. 
 Or, if Ambition has not gained 
 
 The grand success for which it strained; 
 If envy of a neighbor's state, 
 
 Or jealous bick'ring, leads to hate, 
 'Tis all the same, that bitter smart, 
 
 While gnaws the worm upon the heart. 
 Once happy days have lost their zest. 
 
 The nights, so peaceful, bring no rest, 
 Each occupation irksome grows. 
 
 And Life a murky current flows. 
 
FLOATING AWAY. 
 
 In quiet reflection, leaned back in his chair, 
 With eyes on the circles that rose in the air, 
 
 Bob Myers sat smoking one fine autumn day, 
 But all his creations soon floated away. 
 
 In time the good fellow grew aged and ripe, 
 
 While some millions of puffs were drawn from the pipe: 
 
 His forehead was furrowed, the black locks were gray, 
 Yet the wreaths from his lips kept floating away. 
 
 '"T is the way of the world," quoth Bob to himself, 
 
 "Forever pursuing position or pelf. 
 Folks will wrangle and toil for day after day, 
 
 While all of contentment goes floating away." 
 
 So he, without worry, formed clouds with his breath, 
 In his favorite spot, till called on by Death; 
 
 Then shadows were falling, the vines ceased to sway. 
 But his last whiff of smoke had floated away. 
 
 The strength of our youth, and our chances go past, 
 Years vanish like smoke wreaths, and almost as fast. 
 
 While the march of events, which no hand can stay, 
 Shows that your life and mine are floating away. 
 
THE AMBROTYPE. 
 
 25 
 
 So let us make haste to deliver a stroke 
 
 p:re our days, like poor Bob's, have ended in smoke; 
 Time hurries us on and admits no delay. 
 
 For its precious moments are floating away. 
 
 THE AMBROTYPE. 
 
 Safe in a casket, away from the dust, 
 
 Rests a memento of one whom we mourn. 
 
 Its once shining rim now darkened with rust, 
 Its dainty, black case disfigured and worn. 
 
 The straight, rigid form, in costume so quaint. 
 
 With squarely crossed hands and primly combed hair. 
 
 Tells in this picture, so yellow and faint. 
 Of unfrequent act prepared for with care. 
 
 The calm oval face, with juvenile glow. 
 
 The cheeks blooming yet with lavish laid red, 
 
 That still keeps the hue of long years ago, 
 Tinting the shadow of one who is dead. 
 
 This image of youth, so fair in the past. 
 
 Type of dear features remembrance doth hold. 
 
 Is fading with age, but while it may last 
 Love will esteem it at value untold. 
 
SEPTEMBER. 
 
 Those days that came and went so quickly. 
 
 Days of mirth, 
 
 I remember; 
 And how their withered leaves so thickly 
 
 Strewed the earth, 
 
 In September, 
 
 How sunset's gorgeous colors blending 
 
 On the sky, 
 
 In September, 
 Caused fond regret for each day's ending. 
 
 And a sigh 
 
 For September. 
 
 And when the moon rose, redly glowing 
 
 Through the haze, 
 
 Like an ember, 
 Swift fled the nights, as days were going. 
 
 Golden days 
 
 Of September. 
 
LAKE MOREY. 
 
 This lovely water, whose praises I sound, 
 Hides in a region where beauties abound, 
 
 Shuns the world's tumult, and nestles between 
 Two modest mountains clad wholly in green. 
 
 These shady retreats of partridge and hare, 
 
 With well wooded slopes, meet two meadows fair, 
 
 And their bright carpets encircle the strand 
 Where the waves gently are plashing the sand. 
 
 When the brisk breezes, subsiding to rest. 
 Leave not a zephyr to ruffle its breast, 
 
 This dainty mirror reflects to the eye 
 
 The distant white clouds that float through the sky 
 
 It shows the mountain from summit to base. 
 The grove that borders its silvery face. 
 
 And each idle boat, chained fast to a stake, 
 Has a bold shadow reversed in the lake. 
 
 Let the eye ramble o'er woodland and mead, 
 O'er point and inlet, where fancy may lead. 
 
 Rest on the island, or linger on shore. 
 
 They all have the power of charming once more. 
 
QUALITY, 
 
 Then to this lakelet, secluded and calm, 
 No longer delay awarding the palm; 
 
 He that speaks fairly in fairness may call 
 Fairlee's fair water the fairest of all. 
 
 QUALITY. 
 
 Three poets, long since passed from earth. 
 Where time's stern test determines worth. 
 
 Aspired to lasting fame; 
 One was verbose, one sad, one terse. 
 And on the merit of their verse 
 
 Their meed of honor came. 
 
 The first with skill pen pictures traced. 
 And fiow'ry words profusely graced 
 
 A highly colored dream; 
 His fervid fancy's airy phrase 
 Led onward through a brilliant maze, 
 
 Far from the primal theme. 
 
 Another's songs so touching proved 
 A host were to emotion moved, 
 
 And promptly they acclaimed; 
 
BURIAL OF ALARIC. 29 
 
 Yet trifiing impress had been made. 
 For soon the crowd, by impulse swayed, 
 A newer minstrel named. 
 
 The third one's tales^ — how brief, — how strong! 
 Their magic power held captive long 
 
 The countless lovers won; 
 And still the couplets on his page 
 Charm those who read from age to age, 
 
 The work so grandly done. 
 
 BURIAL OF ALARIC. 
 
 The warrior king in death reposed 
 
 Amid his warrior hordes; 
 His stirring life of conquest closed 
 
 Where he had led their swords. 
 
 Lest foeman should despoil the ground 
 
 That held the royal clay, 
 A secret spot was sought and found, — 
 
 'Tis secret to this day. 
 
 A river flowed where camped that force 
 Beneath a foreign sky, 
 
30 BURIAL OF ALARIC. 
 
 They turned its waters from their course 
 And left the channel dry. 
 
 There, deep below the sandy bed, 
 
 A tomb was quickly made; 
 Its buried walls might hide the dead 
 
 Till human glories fade. 
 
 With martial show to match those years, 
 x\nd wealth a victor's share, 
 
 With much of pomp, if less of tears. 
 They left their hero there. 
 
 The stream resumed its wonted way. 
 Performed the mission well, 
 
 'Neath surging flood the monarch lay, 
 But where no tongue could tell. 
 
A WINTER MORNING IN VERMONT. 
 
 The last and deepest gloom forsakes the earth 
 As twilight Cometh, clad in robe of gray; 
 
 A solemn herald of a new day's birth 
 
 With scarce a hint of morning's grand display. 
 
 A veil of finest snow, unstirred by breeze, 
 Has fallen, soft and spotless, in the night; 
 
 It drapes grotesquely fences, rocks and trees. 
 Till little meets the eye but purest white. 
 
 The eastern sky warms with the tints of dawn, 
 The mountains contrast strongly with the light; 
 
 There streaky vapors drift and linger on 
 
 To first conceal and then reveal their height. 
 
 These dwindling clouds, each tinged a lively hue. 
 Do brighten swiftly as the moments speed; 
 
 No painted scene can match the matchless view. 
 Nor choicest words suffice the poet's need. 
 
 The early sunbeams redden Camels Hump; 
 
 Ere long the lesser summits catch the glow; 
 From ridge to ridge the rosy blushes jump, 
 
 And giant shadows stretch along the snow. 
 
^UL 30 1904 
 
 32 A WINTER MORNING IN VERMONT. 
 
 'Jlie silence yields to sounds unheard before; 
 
 An engine's warning blast to clear the road, 
 Then rushing train outstrips, with jar and roar, 
 
 The patient oxen toiling with their load. 
 
 Fast fall the blows of choppers on the hill; 
 
 The logman's chains clink sharply as they drag; 
 The saw's loud whir is borne from distant mill, 
 
 And tinkling bells announce the doctor's nag. 
 
 I'he village chimneys send their columns high; 
 
 Weird, frosted pictures from the windows melt; 
 And ruddy cheeks of people passing by 
 
 Are tokens of the pleasant vigor felt. 
 
 Man to his labor or his pleasure goes; 
 
 The charm of morning can no longer stay; 
 For bustling life succeeds the night's repose. 
 
 And ceaseless motion marks the hours of day.