THE TWO RIVERS.

SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round;
So slowly that no human eye hath power
To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower
The painted ship above it, homeward bound,
Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground;
Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower
The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the

hour,

A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!

The watershed of Time, from which the streams Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light,

One to the land of darkness and of dreams!