THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.
I.
Brawling Streamlet!—hasting on
Through the wild untrodden wood,
Where a voice of mortal tone,
Of thy path—thou lovely one,
Rarely breaks the solitude!
From the founts that gem the side
Of the wild bird’s mountain home,—
With thine unpolluted tide,
Wherefore dost thou roam?
Pure thou art, and free from stain—
Ne’er to be so pure again!
II.
Not from forth the sordid clay,
Grovelling mid the haunts of men,
Rose thy sparkling waves to-day;
But where Heaven’s own breezes play,
O’er the far-off, trackless glen.
