The River

O, tell me, pretty river!
Whence do thy waters flowl
And whither art thou roaming,
So pensive and so slow?
"My birthplace was the mountain,
My nurse, the April showers;
My cradle was a fountain,
O'ercurtain'd by wild flowers.
"One morn I ran away,
A madcap, hoyden rill —
And many a prank that day
I play'd adown the hill!
"And then, mid meadowy banks,
I flirted with the flowers,
That stoop'd, with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.
"But these bright scenes are o'er,
And darkly flows my wave —
I hear the ocean's roar,
And there must be my grave!"