Beautiful streamlet! how precious to me Was the green-swarded paradise water'd by thee; I dream of thee still, as thou wert in my youth, Thy meanderings haunt me with freshness and truth.
I had heard of full many a river of fame, With its wide rolling flood, and its classical name; But the Thames of Old England, the Tiber of Rome, Could not peer with the mill-streamlet close to my home.
Full well I remember the gravelly spot, Where I slyly repair'd though I knew I ought not; Where I stood with my handful of pebbles to make. That formation of fancy, a duck and a drake.
How severe was the scolding, how heavy the threat, When my pinafore hung on me dirty and wet; How heedlessly silent I stood to be told. Of the danger of drowning, the risk of a cold!
"Now mark!" cried a mother, "the mischief done there. Is unbearable—go to that stream if you dare!" But I sped to that stream like a frolicsome colt, For I knew that her thunder-cloud carried no holt.
Though puzzled with longitude, adverb and noun, Till my forehead was sunk in a studious frown; Yet that stream was a Lethe that swept from my soul. The grammar, the globes, and the tutor's control.
I wonder if still the young anglers begin, As I did, with willow-wand, packthread, and pin; When I threw in my line, with expectancy high. As to perch in my basket, and eels in a pie:
When I watched every bubble that broke on a weed, Yet found I caught nothing but lily and reed; Till time and discernment began to instil The manoeuvres of Walton with infinite skill.
Full soon I discover'd the birch-shadow'd place That nurtured the trout and the silver-backed dace; Where the coming of night found me blest and content, With my patience unworn, and my fishing-rod bent.
How fresh were the flags on the stone-studded ridge, That rudely supported the narrow oak bridge: And that bridge, oh! how boldly and safely I ran On the thin plank that now I should timidly scan.
I traversed it often at fall of the night, When the clouds of December shut out the moon's light; A mother might tremble, but I never did; For my footing was sure, though the pale stars were hid.
When the breath of stern winter had fetter'd the tide, What joy to career on its feet-warming slide; With mirth in each eye, and bright health on each cheek, While the gale in our faces came piercing and bleak.
The snow-flakes fell thick on our wind-roughen'd curls, But we laugh'd as we shook off the feathery pearls; And the running, the tripping, the pull and the haul Had a glorious end in the slip and the sprawl.
Oh! I loved the wild place where the clear ripples flow'd On their serpentine way o'er the pebble-strew'd road; Where, mounted on Dobbin, we youngsters would dash; Both pony and rider enjoying the splash.
How often I tried to teach Pincher the tricks. Of diving for pebbles and swimming for sticks; But my doctrines could never induce the loved brute To consider hydraulics a pleasant pursuit.
Did a forcible argument sometimes prevail, What a woful expression was seen in his tail; And, though bitterly vex'd, I was made to agree, That Dido, the spaniel, swam better than he.
What pleasure it was to spring forth in the sun, When the school-door was oped, and our lessons were done; When "Where shall we play!" was the doubt and the call, And "Down by the mill-stream" was echo'd by all.
When tired of childhood's rude, boisterous pranks, We pull'd the tall rushes that grew on its banks; And, busily quiet, we sat ourselves down To weave the rough basket, or plait the light crown.
I remember the launch of our fairy-built ship, How we set her white sails, pull'd her anchor atrip; Till mischievous hands, working hard at the craft, Turn'd the ship to a boat, and the boat to a raft.
The first of my doggerel breathings was there,— 'Twas the hope of a poet, "An Ode to Despair;" I won't vouch for its metre, its sense, or its rhyme, But I know that I then thought it truly sublime.
Beautiful streamlet! I dream of thee still, Of thy pouring cascade, and the tic-tac-ing mill; Thou livest in memory, and will not depart, For thy waters seem blent with the streams of my heart.
Home of my youth! if I go to thee now, None can remember my voice or my brow; None can remember the sunny-faced child, That play'd by the water-mill, joyous and wild.
The aged, who laid their thin hands on my head, To smooth my dark, shining curls, rest with the dead; The young, who partook of my sports and my glee, Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me.
Beautiful streamlet! I sought thee again, But the changes that mark'd thee awaken'd deep pain; Desolation had reign'd, thou wert not as of yore— Home of my Childhood, I'll see thee no more!
