UNTRODDEN WAYS
Where close the curving mountains drew
To clasp the stream in their embrace,
With every outline, curve, and hue,
Reflected in its placid face,
The ploughman stopped his team, to watch
The train, as swift it thundered by;
Some distant glimpse of life to catch,
He strains his eager, wistful eye.
His glossy horses mildly stand
With wonder in their patient eyes,
As through the tranquil mountain land
The snorting monster onward flies.
The morning freshness is on him,
Just wakened from his balmy dreams;
The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,
Think longingly of mountain streams:—
O for the joyous mountain air!
The long, delightful autumn day
Among the hills!—the ploughman there
Must have perpetual holiday!
And he, as all day long he guides
His steady plough with patient hand,
Thinks of the flying train that glides
Into some fair, enchanted land;
Where day by day no plodding round
Wearies the frame and dulls the mind;
Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,
With plough and furrows left behind!