THE RIVULET. THIS little rill, that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings, My truant steps from home would stray, List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, As And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell how bright and gay The scenes of life before me lay. Then glorious hopes, that now to speak Would bring the blood into my cheek, Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high, A name I deemed should never die. Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, How swift the years have passed away, Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wandered in the forest shade. Thou, ever joyous rivulet, Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; And dancing to thy own wild chime, And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, Still chirps as merrily as then. Thou changest not-but I am changed, Has scarce a single trace of him The coloring of romance it wore. Yet well has Nature kept the truth The radiant beauty shed abroad A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould, (If haply the dark will of fate Indulge my life so long a date,) May come for the last time to look Upon my childhood's favorite brook. Then dimly on my eye shall gleam The sparkle of thy dancing stream; And faintly on my ear shall fall Thy prattling current's merry call ; Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright As when thou met'st my infant sight. And I shall sleep-and on thy side, As ages after ages glide, Children their early sports shall try, And pass to hoary age and die. |