Isaac
Basset Choate.
Sweet, silent river, stealing to the sea,
With current tardy, as if sloth were born
Of dreaming dalliance with the droning bee,
In blooming meadows all his summer morn.
Beneath the alders' shade thy waters sleep
In peaceful stillness, resting by the way;
Or, winding through the meadows, slowly creep
In idly circling eddies towards the bay.
Just where they meet and mingle with the tide
That eager rushes up the narrow strait,
Where grassy fields slope down on either side,
They wildly tremble as forecasting fate.
Or is it that a heavy shadow lies
From rough built walls that crowd upon their way?
That quaint stone arches hide the vaulted skies, -
Frown from the waters' face the smile of day?
Above that bridge what intermingling streams
Of human life have coursed this many a year!
By hopes and fears, by fancies and by dreams,
Borne to the crossing of the river here.
Here marched the Continental troops to fight;
Here marched the Veterans-few beside the dead;
Here later heroes, mustering for the right,
Bore on their Country's flag where honor led.
Still, Sabbath morns, the fond domestic groups
Wind towards the village church upon the hill;
Next day the children flock to school in troops,
And farmers drive their wagons to the mill.