The Streams

Your murmurs bring the pleasant breath
Of many a sylvan scene ;
They tell of sweet and sunny vales,
And woodlands wildly green ;
Ye cheer the lonely heart of age, —
Ye fill the exile's dreams
With hope and home and memory, —
Ye unforgotten streams.

Too soon the blessed springs of love
To bitter fountains turn,
And deserts drink the stream that flows
From hope's exhaustless urn ;
And faint, upon the waves of life,
May fall the summer beams :
But they linger long and bright with you,
Ye sweet unchanging streams !

The bards — the ancient bards — who sang
When thought and song were new,-
O mighty waters ! did they learn
Their minstrelsy from you?
For still, methinks, your voices blend
With all their glorious themes,
That flow for ever fresh and free
As the eternal streams !

Well might the sainted seer of old,
Who trod the tearless shore,
Like many waters deem the voice
The angel hosts adore !
For still, where deep the rivers roll,
Or far the torrent gleams,
Our spirits hear the voice of God
Amid the rush of streams !