Agnes Maule Machar (1837–1927)

WHERE close the curving mountains drew,

To clasp the stream in their embrace,

With every outline, shade and hue

Reflected in its placid face,

The ploughman stops his team to watch

The train, as swift it thunders by;

Some distant glimpse of life to catch,

He strains his eager, wistful eye.

His waiting horses patient stand

With wonder in their gentle eyes,

As through the tranquil mountain land

The snorting engine onward flies.

The morning freshness is on him,

Just wakened from his balmy dreams;

The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,

Think longingly of mountain streams.

Oh, for the joyous mountain air,

The long, delightful autumn day

Among the hills!—the ploughman there

Must have perpetual holiday!

And he, as all day long he guides

His steady plough with patient hand,

Thinks of the train that onward glides

Into some new enchanted land,

Where, day by day, no plodding round

Wearies the frame and dulls the mind,

Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,

With ploughs and furrows left behind!

Even so to each the untrod ways

Of life are touched by Fancy’s glow,

That ever sheds its brightest rays

Upon the paths we do not know!