THE ROADS OF OLD.

THE roads of old, how fair they gleamed,
How long each winding way was deemed;
     In days gone by, how wondrous high
Their little hills and houses seemed.

The morning road, that led to school,

Was framed in dew that clung as cool
     To childish feet as waves that beat
About the sunbeams in a pool;

The river road, that crept beside
The dreamy alder-bordered tide,

     Where fish at play on Saturday
Left some young hopes ungratified;

The valley road, that wandered through
Twin vales and heard no wind that blew—
     The cowbell’s clank from either bank

Was all the sound it ever knew; [Page 149]

The woodland road, whose windings dim
Were known to watchers straight and slim;
     How slow it moved, as if it loved
Each listening leaf and arching limb;

The market road, that felt the charm
Of lights on many a sleepy farm,
     When whirring clocks and crowing cocks
Gave forth the market-man’s alarm;

The village road, that used to drop

Its daisies at the blacksmith shop,
     And leave some trace of rustic grace
To tempt the busiest eye to stop;

These all renew their olden spell.
With rocky cliff and sunny dell,

     With purling brook and grassy nook,
They bordered childhood’s country well.

And we who near them used to dwell
Can but the same sweet story tell,
     That on them went glad-eyed Content;

They bordered childhood’s country well. [Page 150]