  We’ve cleared the station—free at last From darkness, din, and worry; By red-brick villas, shady roads And garden-plots we hurry. And now green miles of pasture-land Flit by, with budding hedges, And far to Southward I can see The purple mountain ridges. My fellow-travellers pretermit, Seeing there is no danger, That anxious glance with which we greet The presence of a stranger. Whom have we? First, some man of means (I guess), brow-wrinkled, dull-eyed, His face the index of a soul By cares unworthy sullied. And then a lady, whom I deem Some mask of Fashion merely; And last, a maid of nineteen years, Who, since I’ve seen her clearly, Has won the careless glance I gave To linger, as delighted As with some green-rimmed waterspring In midst of deserts blighted. What is her charm? Not very fair, Nor luring to the senses— And yet her frank and girlish grace, Her lack of small pretences, Her clear, unconscious hazel eyes, Pure lips, and simple neatness, Fill my heart as I gaze on her With deep and tender sweetness. ······ The train has rolled without a break For half an hour or more, perhaps; My wealthy cit has fall’n asleep, Will soon begin to snore, perhaps; Kind Morpheus touch’d him as he scanned The last returns of traffic— The lady clad in furs and silks Is trifling with her Graphic. The maiden looks with dreaming eyes As wood and field and river Flash past our roaring carriage-wheels In whirling dance forever. What are the thoughts that smooth her brows To such content, I wonder, While clangs about our silent group The railroad’s rhythmic thunder? But now more slow the landscape moves— We reach a little station— And how the maiden’s face has changed, Lit up with expectation! A brother, with his sister’s eyes, Brown-cheeked from sun and heather, Awaits her; and with half a sigh I watch them leave together. The heavy train regathers speed, And minute after minute The country station drops behind— Some spell is surely in it! For now my fellow-travellers seem No mark for peevish scorning— Those withered lives had surely once The innocence of morning. But ah, the world’s use, soon or late, Dispels the early glamour, And faint the spheral music rings In this incessant clamour! Save when, at times, in some strange lull Of tyrannous self-seeking, The heart of memory is thrilled By ancient voices speaking. And then the cloud in which we walk Rolls by us, and from dreaming We wake to see the primal world In beauty round us gleaming; Then common things to common eyes Their secret life surrender, And glow beneath the light of day With visionary splendour. ······· What wrought me so? I only know I bowed in homage ardent Before some high mysterious Power A heart a little hardened. That glory flashed upon a soul By doubt and self o’erladen, When all I saw in very sooth Was but a simple maiden. |
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