Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/111

Rh The stout hearth-rock.

Then the lines they upswell

Like a huge church-bell,

Or a bellying sail

In a stiff south gale

When the ship rolls well,

With a blue sky above her.

IV

My chimney—come view it,

And I'll tell you, John Burroughs,

What is built all through it:

First the derrick's shrill creak,

That perturbed the still air

With a cry of despair.

The lone traveler who past

At the fall of the night

If he saw not its mast

Stood still with affright

At a sudden strange sound—

Hark! a woman's wild shriek?

Or the baying of a hound?

Then the stone-hammer's clink

And the drill's sharp tinkle,

And bird-songs that sprinkle

Their notes through the wood

(With pine odors scented),

On the swift way to drink

At the spring cold and good

That bubbles 'neath the stone

Where the red chieftain tented

In the days that are gone.