No ripple shows Musketaquid, Her very current e’en is hid, As deepest souls do calmest rest, When thoughts are swelling in the breast, And she that in the summer’s drought Doth make a rippling and a rout, Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff, Unruffled by a single skiff. But by a thousand distant hills The louder roar a thousand rills, And many a spring which now is dumb, And many a stream with smothered hum, Doth swifter well and faster glide, Though buried deep beneath the tide. Our village shows a rural Venice, Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is; As lovely as the Bay of Naples Yon placid cove amid the maples; And in my neighbour’s field of corn I recognise the Golden Horn. Here Nature taught from year to year, When only red men came to hear; Methinks ’twas in this school of art Venice and Naples learned their part, But still their mistress, to my mind, Her young disciples leaves behind. RIVER SONG Ply the oars! away! away! In each dew-drop of the morning Lies the promise of a day. Rivers from the sunrise flow, Springing with the dewy morn; Voyageurs ’gainst time do row, Idle noon nor sunset know, Ever even with the dawn. -------- Since that first ‘Away! away!’ Many a lengthy reach we’ve rowed, Still the sparrow on the spray Hastes to usher in the day With her simple-stanza’d ode. SOME TUMULTUOUS LITTLE RILL Some tumultuous little rill, Purling round its storied pebble, Tinkling to the selfsame tune, From September until June, Which no drought doth e’er enfeeble. Silent flows the parent stream, And if rocks do lie below, Smothers with her waves the din, As it were a youthful sin, Just as still, and just as slow. BOAT SONG Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter, Many a lagging year agone, Gliding o’er thy rippling waters, Lowly hummed a natural song. Now the sun’s behind the willows, Now he gleams along the waves, Faintly o’er the wearied billows Come the spirits of the braves. TO MY BROTHER Brother, where dost thou dwell? What sun shines for thee now? Dost thou indeed fare well, As we wished thee here below? What season didst thou find? ’Twas winter here. Are not the Fates more kind Than they appear? Is thy brow clear again As in thy youthful years? And was that ugly pain The summit of thy fears? Yet thou wast cheery still; They could not quench thy fire; Thou didst abide their will, And then retire. Where chiefly shall I look To feel thy presence near? Along the neighboring brook May I thy voice still hear?