And since the polished white man came,
He's loved and honored me the same;
Though all the neighboring trees around
Were slain, as cumberers of the ground,
Yet here I tower in grandeur still,--
The pride and glory of the hill.
My dauntless spirits never quail
At earthquakes, hurricanes, or hail;
The rolling thunder's fiery car
Has never dared my form to mar;
I've heard its rumbling undismayed,
While forked lightnings round me played;
But O, thou little murm'ring brook,
How mean and meager is thy look;--
Babbling, babbling, all day long,--
How I detest thy simple song.
I would not have thee in my sight,
Did not all nobles claim a right
To keep some menial servant near,
And therefore 'tis that thou art here.
As I am always very neat.
I'll deign to let thee wash my feet;--
Such work becomes one in thy place,--
To drudge for me is no disgrace."
The spirit of the brook was stirred,
But still her voice had not been heard,
Had not a zephyr, ling'ring round,
In friendly mood, caught up the sound,
And flying round the monarch's head,
Breathed in his ear the words she said.