 | Grouped thoughts and scattered fancies |  |
LXXXIV.
THE ANCIENT RIVULET.
Sit thee beside me for awhile, and rest,On these green marges of the slope, and hear,
As yon sly brooklet sends up to the ear
Its chaunt of murmurs, like a strain repress'd
By sobbings of the heart that pours it out!—
I mind me, friend, that it is now about
61
Beside this little streamlet, as I left,
Grieving with boyhood's heart, my native town!
To this I now return,—of youth bereft,
And thorns about my head in place of crown.
Then all was, “lo! the triumph!” in my breast,
My thought, heart, eye, on one achievment set;
Now! all is changed save this poor rivulet.
| Grouped thoughts and scattered fancies | |