 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
95
THE RIVULET
When winter takes its stormy flight,
And blushing spring reveals its light,
The captive mountain stream, unbound,
First feebly steals along the ground,
And seeks its hidden path to screen
'Mid tangled trees and branches green.
But bolder soon its waters play,
Full in the light of open day;
Then whirl along in eddies deep,
And fling their murmurs down the steep.
Now full and free the gallant stream
Holds dalliance with the morning beam;
Now throws aloft its gauzy spray
To see the rainbow o'er it play;
Now saunters where the lilies dip,
Kissing in turn each proffered lip;
Now forward flies, like lover fleet,
Some kindred rivulet to meet,
That lingers in the vale below,
And sighs with some fond stream to flow;
And now, when evening throws its veil,
Of twilight dim, o'er hill and dale—
It pauses in its wild career,
Spreads smooth its surface broad and clear,
And hushed in holy stillness lies,
Looking with rapture to the skies,
While deep within its bosom true,
Is traced Heaven's own wide world of blue!
And blushing spring reveals its light,
The captive mountain stream, unbound,
First feebly steals along the ground,
And seeks its hidden path to screen
'Mid tangled trees and branches green.
But bolder soon its waters play,
Full in the light of open day;
Then whirl along in eddies deep,
And fling their murmurs down the steep.
Now full and free the gallant stream
Holds dalliance with the morning beam;
Now throws aloft its gauzy spray
To see the rainbow o'er it play;
Now saunters where the lilies dip,
Kissing in turn each proffered lip;
Now forward flies, like lover fleet,
Some kindred rivulet to meet,
That lingers in the vale below,
96
And now, when evening throws its veil,
Of twilight dim, o'er hill and dale—
It pauses in its wild career,
Spreads smooth its surface broad and clear,
And hushed in holy stillness lies,
Looking with rapture to the skies,
While deep within its bosom true,
Is traced Heaven's own wide world of blue!
Child of the hills, where lightnings streak!
Thy cradle is the azure peak,
Thy robes, the wreaths of morn that float,
Thy lullaby, the thunder note!
Born of the snow, by tempests fed,
In chasms rocked, in forests bred,
Thy sport is o'er the rocks to leap;
Thy dance, in caverns dark and deep;
Thy frolic, foaming white to run
And toss thy bubbles to the sun!
Thy cradle is the azure peak,
Thy robes, the wreaths of morn that float,
Thy lullaby, the thunder note!
Born of the snow, by tempests fed,
In chasms rocked, in forests bred,
Thy sport is o'er the rocks to leap;
Thy dance, in caverns dark and deep;
Thy frolic, foaming white to run
And toss thy bubbles to the sun!
Bright offspring of the cloud and storm!
There's beauty in thy crystal form!
Though wild and wayward thy career,
Thy face is fair, thy music dear;
Thou art fond childhood's image fair,
With full blue eye and sunny hair—
A thing of beauty and caprice,
Now soft as summer's sighing breeze,
Now wild as winds that whirl on high,
A cloud of leaves to winter's sky!
There's beauty in thy crystal form!
Though wild and wayward thy career,
97
Thou art fond childhood's image fair,
With full blue eye and sunny hair—
A thing of beauty and caprice,
Now soft as summer's sighing breeze,
Now wild as winds that whirl on high,
A cloud of leaves to winter's sky!
Sweet mountain stream! I love to trace
Thee in thy light and playful chase—
But more I love the beams that play
O'er childhood's light and laughing way;
The filial love that beameth strong
In tearful eyes, through lashes long;
The rainbow smile that often peers
In lustre through a cloud of tears;
The awe that o'er the young face steals,
When night its wondrous sky reveals;
The high arched brow, with feeling fraught,
The long fixed gaze of living thought,
That tells of immortality,
Kindled within that bright blue eye,—
These, these are beauties more divine,
Sweet mountain rivulet, than thine!
Thee in thy light and playful chase—
But more I love the beams that play
O'er childhood's light and laughing way;
The filial love that beameth strong
In tearful eyes, through lashes long;
The rainbow smile that often peers
In lustre through a cloud of tears;
The awe that o'er the young face steals,
When night its wondrous sky reveals;
The high arched brow, with feeling fraught,
The long fixed gaze of living thought,
That tells of immortality,
Kindled within that bright blue eye,—
These, these are beauties more divine,
Sweet mountain rivulet, than thine!
| The Outcast, and other poems | |