 | Metrical essays |  |
162
THE STREAM.
There is a stream—a dark and lonely stream—Springs where the cypress branches weep around;
Few footsteps visit that secluded ground—
The aged woodmen it unholy deem:
Wild tales are told of fearful objects seen
Wandering its gloomy banks—of thrilling cries
Heard in that hour when purple twilight dies
Along the south—mild, beauteous and serene—
But morn or noon have never found the power
To change the dismal hue those waters bear:
'Tis night—unaltering and for ever there,
In vain the sun may shine—the storm may lower!—
Are there not men, much like this history,
That live in darkness, and in darkness die?
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