THIS little rill, that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings, Plays on the slope a while, and then Goes prattling into groves again, Oft to its warbling waters drew My little feet, when life was new. When woods in early green were dressed, And from the chambers of the west The warmer breezes, travelling out, Breathed the new scent of flowers about My truant steps from home would stray, Upon its grassy side to play,
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, And crop the violet on its brim,
With blooming cheek and open brow, As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.
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 sporting with the sands that pave The windings of thy silver wave, And dancing to thy own wild chime, Thou laughest at the lapse of time. The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear; As pure thy limpid waters run, As bright they sparkle to the sun; As fresh and thick the bending ranks Of herbs that line thy oozy banks; The violet there, in soft May dew, Comes up, as modest and as blue; As green amid thy current's stress, Floats the scarce-rooted watercress : And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, Still chirps as merrily as then.
Thou changest not-but I am changed, Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged; And the grave stranger, come to see The play-place of his infancy, Has scarce a single trace of him Who sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past- Too bright, too beautiful to last. I've tried the world-it wears no more The colouring of romance it wore. Yet well has Nature kept the truth She promised to my earliest youth. The radiant beauty shed abroad On all the glorious works of God, Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, Each charm it wore in days gone by.
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 favourite 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.
But thou, unchanged from year to year, Gayly shalt play and glitter here; Amid young flowers and tender grass Thy endless infancy shalt pass; And, singing down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men.
THE stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies. I hear the rushing of the blast.
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild stormy month! in praise of thee; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May. Then sing aloud the gushing rills
And the full springs from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea. The year's departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet.
Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours
Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes-but not for thine- Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour: Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom Detach thy delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
XAN INDIAN STORY.
"I KNOW where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell,
Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides, From the eye of the hunter well.
"I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook,
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn
Far over the silent brook.
"And that timid fawn starts not with fear When I steal to her secret bower; And that young May violet to me is dear, And I visit the silent streamlet near, To look on the lovely flower."
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks To the hunting-ground on the hills; "Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills.
He goes to the chase-but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs; And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, The flower of the forest maids.
The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, And the woods their song renew, With the early carol of many a bird,
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew.
And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, Ere eve shall redden the sky,
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