The last returns of traffic—

The lady clad in furs and silks

Is trifling with her Graphic.

The maiden looks with dreaming eyes

As wood and field and river

Flash past our roaring carriage-wheels

In whirling dance forever.

What are the thoughts that smooth her brows

To such content, I wonder,

While clangs about our silent group

The railroad’s rhythmic thunder?

[26]

But now more slow the landscape moves—

We reach a little station—

And how the maiden’s face has changed,

Lit up with expectation!

A brother, with his sister’s eyes,

Brown-cheeked from sun and heather,

Awaits her; and with half a sigh

I watch them leave together.

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