FROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's intervales; There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow, As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred years ago. But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams, and mills, How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom of the hills, Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately Champernoon Heard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpet of the loon ! With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of fire and steam, Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream. Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward far and fast The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of the past. The evening gun had sounded from gray | Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, Dame Garvin looked upon her: "It is Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose Mary's self I see! his prayer of love and praise. he started at beholding, as he rose from off his knee, "And the prayers of all God's people stranger cross his forehead with the Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such special proof of love." As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple stood, And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maidenhood. old man stroked the fair head that Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth ; our words, dear child," he answered, 66 are God's rebuke to me. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade And asked a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, or the great and crowning mercy, down ere she rests (they hope in God's On her feet so bare and her tattered sad words of tongue or pen, st are these: "It might have n!" Straggling rangers, worn with dangers, 66 Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, And green isles of Casco Bay; "Let me with my charmed earth On the grain-lands of the mainlands for us all some sweet hope Out at sea, the islands wooded, |