THE ASS A BET BROOK AND RIVER 275
Who shall dare thy waves restrain, Lashed along by wind and rain ? Then the whirlpool, boiling round. Swells above the basin's bound ; Bursting through its prison doors, Down the rocky gulf it roars, And the waves so wildly toss. Human footsteps dare not cross.
Thus in spring-time's earliest green
Assabet's fair brook is seen,
Ere its greater namesake hides
In her breast its tiny tides.
But, when both, their floods combined.
In a river's strength are joined,
Then its voice more silent grows ;
In a deeper bed it flows,
Sweeping on through glen and glade.
Now in light, and now in shade.
Plunging here 'neath buzzing mill,
There in broad pool resting still.
Till at last, in Acton's grove,
Scarce the current seems to move,
And its azure breast expands
To a placid lake, and stands
So still, that scarce a tiny wave
Ripples above the river's grave.
There from the east, with solemn frown,
Sudbury's pine-clad hills look down ;
While to the west, in shadows deep,
The fields long after sunrise sleep.
Sweet, in the morn of sultry day, To that o'erarching shade to stray, Where the causeway spans the tide.
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