Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Not for the snowy whiteness
Of the river's foaming leap,
Nor for the moon's clear brightness
Poured on thy mouldering keep;
Not for the bridgeway quaintly
Spanning the waters near,
Nor the rushing sounds that faintly
Ring from the distant weir.

'Tis not for these I love thee,
Though I love them passing well;
The power thou hast to move me
Owns a dearer, holier spell;
'Tis not because on beauty's crown
Thy jewels brightest shine,—
There are river banks full many a one
Fairer, perchance, than thine.

But none, like thee, hath spoken
Of all that met my gaze,
The memory still unbroken
Of happy by-gone days;
A sweet, strong incantation
Comes wafted on that strain,
And the old association
Of childhood wakes again.

As thy waters glide before me
Through their rock-enchannelled bed,
Dreams of other days come o'er me,
Other lights are round me shed;
Through the old familiar places
I seem to roam once more,
While loved and long-lost faces
Smile on me from the shore.

There is a southern streamlet,
Child of the mountain floods,
By many a well-known hamlet,
Through the dear oft-trodden woods
That streamlet wanders ever
With sweet melodious noise,
Till the stream becomes a river,
And uplifts a river's voice.

In my ears that voice is ringing
As along thy marge I stray,
To my gaze thy flow is bringing
That river far away;
And 'tis for this I love thee;
All lovely as thou art,
Thy beauty could not move me,
But thou speakest to my heart!