Surging in ponderous lengths, uprose and coiled in its station;
Then each man to his home,--well I remember it all!

Yet, as I sit and watch, this present peace of the landscape,--
Stranded boats, these reels empty and idle, the hush,
One gray hawk slow-wheeling above yon cluster of haystacks,--
More than the old-time stir this stillness welcomes me home.

Ah the old-time stir, how once it stung me with rapture,--
Old-time sweetness, the winds freighted with honey and salt!
Yet will I stay my steps and not go down to the marsh-land,--
Muse and recall far off, rather remember than see,--
Lest on too close sight I miss the darling illusion,
Spy at their task even here the hands of chance and change.



THE SLAVE WOMAN.


Shedding cool drops upon the sun-baked clay,
The dripping jar, brimful, she rests a space
On the well's dry white brink, and leans her face,
Heavy with tears and many a heartsick day,
Down to the water's lip, whence slips away
A rivulet thro' the hot, bright square apace,
And lo! her brow casts off each servile trace--
The wave's cool breath hath won her thoughts astray.

Ah desolate heart! Thy fate thou hast forgot