TOM. M. W .

O' ER sands of golden brown,
 O'er rocks with mosses gray,
The eager brook hastes down,
 Nor pauses on its way;—

Staying not to kiss the leaves
 That dip in its cool tide;
Staying not to woo the flowers
 That bloom along its side;

Staying not in the sweet shadow
 Of the forest green and cool;
Staying not in the sunny meadow,
 Nor in the dark still pool;

Staying not to hear the bird-song,
 Nor the busy hum of the bee,
But rushing restless onward
 Down to the distant sea,—

Down through the broad deep river
 Unto the roaring main;
It hears the deep sea calling,
 And answers back again!

Say not the brook is laughing
 Or singing merrily,—
Its wave yon tired boy quaffing
 Not wearier can be.

No mirth it ever knows;
 But it leaps from stone to stone,
And murmurs as it goes
 In eager, restless tone.

And its voice has strange power
 To win our souls away;
Oh, we can sit and listen
 Through the long summer day,—

Sit till the day is ended,
 And the hot sun gone down,
And on the woods descended
 The twilight soft and brown.

And its voice grows loud and clear
 When the world lies asleep;
And it preaches in the ear
 Of those who wake and weep.

It tells of restless yearning,
 Of the spirit's ceaseless strife,
How the soul is ever sighing
 After a higher life.

How time's stream floweth ever
 Bearing our life away;
Vain, vain is our endeavor,—
 We cannot make it stay!

Onward and ever onward
 The unresting current rolls,
And strange, mysterious voices
 Are calling to our souls.

The present cannot win us
 That we should in it stay;
The Eternal call within us
 We hear, and must obey.