2/8 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
To the swift river sweeping by,
Or where the flume, with its dull moan,
Lends to the winds a deeper tone.
No more, through boughs the walks that lined,
I see the millwheel far behind,
In its white halo whirling round,
While the swift clapper's lively sound
Blent with the roar of the bright fall
That glittered through its leafy wall.
��Still on the river's banks below,
Where, near the verge, the ball-flowers blow,^"
The little gravel walk that winds
Close on the brink even yet reminds
Of those blest days when, far from home,
I, as a school boy, loved to roam
Through the green pathway wet with foam,
While o'er the wave the grapevines hung.
Far out of reach. How tempting swung
The purple clusters, fain to sweep
The frothy flakes from out the deep,
So low they dangled ! But at last,
A hundred lovely arbors past,
The flowery footpath devious wound
To a lone meadow, where no sound
Broke on the ear ; where, broad and high,
Dense-wooded hills cut off the sky.
Here the deep stream flowed mute as death ;
The very storm-winds held their breath,
And human feet drew seldom near ;
The autumn breeze scarce whispered here;
And the deep waters, darkly blue,
With funeral pace went marching through.
Opening two vistas. Upward far.
The flume fell twinkling like a star ;
�� �
