The Mountain Stream.

One summer morn, while yet the thrilling lay,

Of the dew-loving lark was full and strong,

Trampling the wild flowers in my careless way,

Up the steep mountain-side I strode along —

My only guide, a brook whose joyous song,

Seemed like a boy's light-hearted roundelay,

As down it rushed, the leafy bowers among,

Scattering o'er bud and bloom its pearly spray —

A beauteous semblance of life's opening day.

And looking back to that all-gladdening morn,

When I was free and sportive as the stream —

When roses blushed with no suspected thorn,

And fancy's sunlight gilded every dream —

While hope yet shed its sweet delusive beam,

And disappointment still delayed to warn —

With fond regret, I still pursued the theme —

With clambering step still up the steep was borne,

Too sad to smile, too pleased perchance to mourn.

And now I stood beside that rivulet's spring,

That came unbidden with a bubbling bound —

And stealing forth, a gentle trembling thing,

It seemed an infant fearing all around —

Yet clinging to its mother's breast — the ground.

But soon it bolder grew, and with a wing

It went: its carol was a joyous sound,

Making the silent woods responsive ring,

And the far forest-echoes, sighing, sing.

And now I stood upon the mountain's height —

Like a wide map, the landscape lay unrolled —

There could I trace that rivulet's path of light,

From the steep mountain to the sea of gold;

Now leaping o'er the rocks like chamois bold,—

Now like a crouching hare concealed from sight,—

Now hid beneath the willow's bowering fold,

As if they sought to stay its arrowy flight,

Then give it forth again more swift and bright.

‘ Twas changeful — beautiful; now dark, now fair —

A tale of life, from childhood to the tomb —

Its birth-place near the skies, in mountain air,

Where wild flowers throw around their sweet perfume,

Like the blest thoughts that often brightly bloom,

At home, beneath a mother's culturing care —

Its form now hid in shadows, such as gloom

Our downward way — its grave in ocean, where

It mingles with the wave — a dweller there!

And though that stream be hidden from the view,

‘ Tis yet preserved‘ neath ocean's briny crest:

That wide eternity of waves is true —

And as the planets anchored in their rest,

The sparkling streamlet lives; and while unblest,

The land-wave stagnant lingers — there the blue

Tide holds the river stainless in its breast —

An image still of life, that sparkles through

The starry deep of heaven, for ever new.