Poems (Helen Jenkins)/Sebasticook

SEBASTICOOK.

On thee, my fair Sebasticook,
O how oft in dreams I look!
Like a picture rare and bright,
Thou art ever welcome to my sight.

Yet, unbidden start the tears,
Even after many years,
When each cherished spot I see,
Still so fair, so dear to me.

On the bridge again I stand
In the summer twilight bland,
While the lengthening shadows deep,
Like spectres o'er the water creep.

A mimic lakelet, clear and fair,
Sleeps in quiet beauty there,—
The moving tide a while delayed
By granite wall and palisade;

Then downward rushing, rainbow-spanned,
Making music deep and grand,
Whirling, foaming, eddying by—
Wheels and looms go merrily.

On thy face the tall church spire
Leaves the sunset's kiss of fire;
And, at morn, the sunlight sweet
Glides across with noiseless feet.

Free at last from all restraint,
Ceasing now thy dolorous plaint,
Winding, hurrying on again
From the busy haunts of men;

Over rocky shallows gliding,
Or 'neath woodland shadows hiding,
Singing, dancing here and there,
In silver-crested ripples fair;

Round the hill where rest our dead,
Passing now with muffled tread;
Nevermore our dear ones waking,
Never their long slumber breaking;

Onward, onward, loitering never,—
This thy watchword now and ever,—
Till thy varied tasks are done,
And the brighter goal is won.

We will this grand lesson learn,
For we, too, may not return,—
We will do what good we may
While we pass along our way.

We can ne'er our steps retrace,
Or our thoughtless deeds efface:
Right or wrong, false or true,
Our record is whate'er we do.