THE STREAMLET.
I.
Once more in the old places!—and I glow
Again with boyhood. Once again renew'd,
My wandering feet have found the rivulet's flow,
My eyes pursue old vistas in the wood;
My heart partakes their consciousness,—I hear
Long lost, but well-known sounds, salute mine ear.
II.
The voices of the forest and the stream,
And murmuring flights of wind, that through the grove
Come fitfully, like fancies in a dream,
And speak of wild and most unearthly love—
Such love as hope prefigures to the boy,
Crowning each hillock with a sunbright joy.
III.
There gleams the opening path, and there, below,
Glimmers the streamlet sparkling through green leaves;
I catch the distant pattering of its flow,
In sudden murmurs, ere mine eye perceives,
Complaining, as it takes its tiny leaps,
To the scoop'd basin where it sings and sleeps.
IV.
It was my father taught me, when a boy,
The winding way that wins it; and I grew
To love the path with an exceeding joy,
That heeded not the moments as they flew,
So sweetly were they then beguiled—gay gleams
All green and gold, the garments of youth's dreams.
V.
And, sitting by its marge, my father said,
That streamlet had a language for his ear,
Though vainly did I bend my boyish head,
With him, but nothing could I ever hear;
Yet, as we did return, he still would say,
He was a better man, so taught that day.
VI.
Yet, surely was there nothing but the flow
Of idle waters, evermore the same—
A sweet, sad pattering, as they went below—
I never heard them syllable a name,
Though much I strove, for in my father's look
I read the serious truth of all he spoke.
VII.
An hundred streams like this the country knows,
From Santee to Savannah—brooks that glide
Through willow tassels—where the laurel blows
In triumph, and the poplar springs in pride;
A slender thread of silvery white it went,
Winding and prattling in its slow descent.
VIII.
Where, then, the mystery of its voice and whence?
Like other forests those which round it grew;
In what the source of that intelligence,
Denied to me, which yet my father knew?
Change had not touch'd its waters,—'twas that morn
As small as in the hour when he was born.
IX.
He too, like me, had from its yellow bed
Pluck'd the gray pebble, and beneath its wave
Had plunged, in summer noon, his aching head,
Glad of the cool delight that still it gave;—
Then he grew up to manhood,—then became
Agéd,—yet was this little stream the same.
X.
His grave is in the forest, and he sleeps
Far from the groves he loved—his voice no more
Is in mine ear; yet through my memory creeps
Its echo, and the wild and solemn lore
He taught me, when we walk'd beside that brook,
Comes back as now within its waves I look.
XI.
The spells of memory to my side command
The shadowy thought, nor desolate nor lone;—
Faint are the images that near me stand,
Yet are they images of things well known;
Years gather to a moment and inform
The trembling bosom which they fail to warm.
XII.
No longer am I desolate, beside
These green and sacred borders: in my ear,
As down I bend, where the fast waters glide,
Murmurs from sweetest fancies do I hear;
Hope takes the swallow's accents, and they bring
To glad the gathering years, a rich and green-eyed spring.
XIII.
And my old sire, he err'd not sure! I feel
As if I were a listener to the spell
Of one whose voice is power! My senses reel!
It is his language,—I should know it well,—
He speaks through these sweet waters which he loved
In boyhood, and where still our footsteps roved.
XIV.
I tremble with a joy—my heart is still,
As, swelling up, the accents break the air;
My spirit, troubled, shrinks, even as the rill
When leaves disturb the sleeping waters there;—
My feet are fasten'd with a subtle charm,
Soothing but startling—full of sweet alarm.
XV.
The accents gather to familiar sounds,
And wake anew a lost and well-loved tone,
I hear the sacred words, while silence rounds
The enchanted circle, and my breath is gone:
They rise melodious, sad, but softly clear,—
My heart receives the music, not mine ear.
XVI.
“I have been when thy father dream'd of thee,
I shall be, when thou dreamest of thy child;
Thy children shall be listeners to me,
Whose tones so oft thy father's feet beguiled;
I am thy guardian genius,—from the first
My waters still have slaked thy spirit's thirst.
XVII.
“When thou shall be forgotten I shall be,
And to the race that shall succeed thee on,
I will repeat my counsel, as to thee,
And like thy footsteps now, shall theirs be won,
From the thick gathering—from the crowded street
With me, within the solitude, to meet.
XVIII.
“And I shall soothe their spirits, as I now
Soothe that of him, their sire; my streams shall be
A gracious freshness for each burning brow,
While my soft voice shall whisper, sweetly free,
Tempering to calm the bosom vex'd and bow'd
By the unteeling clamors of the crowd.
XIX.
“Go forth, fair boy, and happy be thy years,
Forget not soon the lessons, long our theme,
Nor, when the growing Time shall teach thee tears,
Desert these shady bowers—this sacred stream;
'Twill be my care, when man hath taught thee gloom,
To bring thy worn heart back to all its bloom.
XX.
“Look on these waters when thy mood is sad,
Fly to these groves, when close pursued by power;
These shall restore thee all that made thee glad,
And bring oblivion of the present hour;
Mine is the stream that must forever roll,
A memory not of earth, but of its soul.
XXI.
“I keep affections pure—I save the heart
From Earth's pollutions;—treasured in my wave
Is healing, and the power to make depart
Bad passions, those worst tyrants; and to save
The victim from himself, and still restore
The angel whiteness of the soul once more.
XXII.
“Oh, when the world hath wrong'd thee, seek me then,
Though, hapless, from thy better self estranged;
Fly to these waters from the strifes of men,
And gazing in them shall thy heart be changed;
Though years have risen between, and strife and scorn,
Yet shall thy face, once more, be that thou wear'st this morn.”
