  The silent glen, the sunless stream, To wandering boyhood dear, And treasur'd still in many a dream, They are no longer here; A huge red mound of earth is thrown Across the glen so wild and lone, The stream so cold and clear; And lightning speed, and thundering sound, Pass hourly o'er the unsightly mound. Nor this alone—for many a mile Along that iron way, No verdant banks or hedgerows smile In summer's glory gay; Thro' chasms that yawn as though the earth Were rent in some strange mountain-birth, Whose depth excludes the day, We're born away at headlong pace, To win from time the wearying race! The wayside inn, with homelike air, No longer tempts a guest To taste its unpretending fare, Or seek its welcome rest. The prancing team—the merry horn— The cool fresh road at early morn— The coachman's ready jest; All, all to distant dream-land gone, While shrieking trains are hurrying on. Yet greet we them with thankful hearts, And eyes that own no tear, 'Tis nothing now, the space which parts The distant from the dear; The wing that to her cherish'd nest Bears home the bird's exulting breast, Has found its rival here. With speed like hers we too can haste, The bliss of meeting hearts to taste. For me, I gaze along the line To watch the approaching train, And deem it still, 'twixt me and mine, A rude, but welcome chain To bind us in a world, whose ties Each passing hour to sever tries, But here may try in vain; To bring us near home many an art, Stern fate employs to keep apart. [From Bentley's Miscellany.] |
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