48 THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
Then, with a fearful rush and din. they all went tearing down, And that 's the way, so wise folks say, the first team came to town !
One day, when out a riding, and the summer time was new,
My friend asked, "■ What fair suburb would you most delight to view?"
" O. show me Sugar-ball ! " I said, vt if I may choose the place ! "
And toward the lovely Merrimack our good steed turned his face.
We rumbled o'er the lower bridge, with thunderous refrain,
We bowled, with muffled hoof and wheel, across the cool " Dark Plain."
The pines gave out a balmy breath and sough of anthem grand,
And branching pathways lead away through shadows on each hand.
The spiky lupine mats of blue along the pathway lay.
And columbines enticed the bees that hummed in drowsy way.
Wild cherry trees, like scattered drifts of snow, were here and there,
And poplars twirled their silver leaves in each fresh puff of air.
And then— we had not seemed to climb, or noticed change at all —
My friend said, u Now note well the place for this is Sugar-ball."
And here the road sloped sharply down, and seemed to hang between
A sandy bluff that rose straight up, and a deep, dark ravine.
The light, that fell in flickers, making shadows fall and rise,
Came, suddenly, unbroken, and — I sat in mute surprise !
Can words e'er paint the picture? There the sunny river lay,
Each dancing wave alive with light that seemed to rise like spray.
Beyond it stretched our city in an after-dinner sleep,
Half hidden b} r its spread of green, and all in silence deep.
Between us and the water, that bent round it like a frame,
Lay the Valley of Enchantment, though it never bore that name.
The vale was sweet with blossoms, — tossing waves of pink and white, —
Sending perfume out to meet us. half way up the breezy height,
Till, half tipsy with the fragrance, we grew light in head and Avord,
And that bobolinks should mock us did not seem the least absurd.
Where the water makes an eddy, clinging closely to the land.
There were ducks, like tiny steamers, paddling outward from the sand,
Or, seemingly o'er-mastered by the greatness of their bliss,
They plunged and dipped in ecstacy that had no vent but this.
There were barns that stood wide open, showing scaffolds fringed with hay;
There were houses that were dwelt in. but the people — where were they?
One woman, in a doorway, whom the lilacs seem to shrive —
One farmer, in a corn-field, — were they all that were alive?
But the valley ! O. the valley ! with its wealth for heart and brain !
Though we gazed long on its beauties, yet we turned, and turned again —
O. it seemed a restful haven for a weary, world-worn soul.
If the height is Sugar-ball, the vale is surely Sugar-bowl.
��ONLY A BUD.
��BY E. P. DOLE.
Only a bud on the ocean shore, More brightly than diamond e'er flashed
A beautiful rose-bud, blooming alone, from the mine —
In a nook of the gorge, where the wild Nothing more,
billows foam —
Nothing more. Only a bud — on the morn before
Robed in silver and jewels, now naked and brown ; — Only a web of the morn before, And the ocean's dirge— and the sun gone
Like a bridal veil, from the outer air dowm —
Keeping the white bud pure and fair— Nothing more.
Nothing more.
Nay, 'tis a bud on eternity s shore,
Transplanted to bloom in the garden on Only the sprays of the ocean shore, high,
In the beams of the morning that trem- By the waters of life, in its purity, ble and shine Foreverniore.
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