Thy gleaming waters, deep and wide, With gathering impulse onward glide: Thy madcap freaks dost think to hide, O laughing Kenduskeag? The golden sunlight now is flushing Thy drifts of misty spray, out-gushing; O'er every barrier madly rushing, Fair, fickle Kenduskeag!
Now dancing on in merriest mood, As if thou wouldst be kind and good; Or, angry, reckless, strong and rude, All proper bounds o'er-leaping, In sheds and cellars, here and there, In shops and stables,—everywhere— Up in our very streets you dare To come, so slily creeping.
And then, ere long, with mud-stained face, Receding, back with measured pace, With more of sullenness than grace, To your old haunts you steal: Where oft, with noiseless feet, instead, You loiter on your rock-strewn bed, As if your very life were fled,— You scarcely turn a wheel.
Then idle, useless stands each mill, Which runs so blithely at your will, When, climbing to the window-sill, You take a peep inside. We do not like your willful ways, And will be sparing of our praise, E'en when, in summer's gladsome days, 'Neath grassy banks you glide.
How sweetly pictured are the trees In sunny nooks and shadowy leas, As, softly swaying in the breeze, They reach their hands to you. We know and prize these beauties well, In many a quiet, flower-fringed dell; Far more than we will ever tell, We love, and fear thee, too.
For, wicked, willful, wayward stream, When at their flood, thy waters seem With smiles demoniac a-gleam, As if on mischief bent. And oft, some luckless wight has striven To stem thy maddened current, till driven Where death alone has succor given,— Canst thou not be content?
Strong men have struggled with the tide Of all thy marshaled waters wide; And well hast thou their strength defied, Unmindful of their fate. And once a mother, young and brave, Was drowned when none were near to save; And though she battled with each wave, Thou wert insatiate.
O cruel fate! How terrible her fears! No earthly friend her cry for rescue hears; The angry flood drowns all her cries and tears; Her story none can tell; She met her doom unaided and alone. How, for her babes, she loudly did bemoan! Her last, wild prayer, alone to God is known, Or why it thus befell.
And we, when homeward bound, once rode In terror through this swollen flood,— The danger hardly understood. We could not well turn back; Our dear, sick boy lay helpless at our side. Into his cheek crept up the crimson tide,— Amid the waves out-spreading far and wide, O, could we keep the track?
We found "Black Brook," as oft before, Had swept the broad, Tow meadows o'er, Reaching to the Kenduskeag's shore. With fear my lips were dumb. The gentle horses, onward urged, Kept well the road, so far submerged, While all around the water surged,— And just beyond was Home!
In all our lives, there's many a place Where we a guiding hand can trace,— A memory time cannot efface, Whether of joy or pain,— And while the lights and shadows fall Now bright, or darkly over all, O let no doubts our hearts appall; We do not trust in vain!
We, like this wayward, changeful stream, Amid the shadows and the gleam Of many a dark or pleasant dream, Are journeying to the sea; And, hurrying on, we often find Many a thorny sheaf to bind, Many a pathway, dim and blind, Toward eternity.
