Constance Fairbanks
The Junction
HERE, at the change of ways, the steel steed halts,
The train stands still, and weary travellers gaze
On what appears to be a wilderness
Of barren rocks, grim, desolate, and stern.
“What place is this,” they ask, “so bleak and bald?
Here surely are the bones of Earth laid bare;
The gaunt frame of this time-worn world!” Such words,
Contempt infused, are heard from jeering lips,
But the drear wayside maketh no reply.
Yet look! the train moves on; the funnel snorts,
And rocks fling echoes on the trembling air;
From the new point of sight the scoffer sees
Deep pools of water bosomed in the waste—
Calm ponds reflecting Heaven’s own lovely blue,
With gray rocks, verdure-touched, around their brinks.
Halifax
FACING the ocean, guardian of our land,
Thy frowning forts and ramparts front the foam
Whose waves still ceaseless chafe the rocky strand,
While salt winds waft sea-odors o’er our home.
All the round year the tramp of armed men,
Crisp bugle call, the guns at noon and night,
And martial music, tell us o’er again
That Britain guards us with a jealous might.
Those Far-Off Fields
THOSE far-off fields, how fair they seem,
As soft through mists of years they gleam!
We never now around us see
Such meads as those of olden be;
We never find a lake or stream
One half so lovely as we deem
Those which we only view in dream,
Watering the fields of memory—
Those far-off fields!
And we were happy then! The theme
Of our existence, love supreme:
And looking back on Fate’s decree—
On all that happened you and me—
We sigh—for dear our souls esteem
Those far-off fields!