The streamlet, with a deep drawn sigh,
In silv'ry tones, made this reply:
"Illustrious oak, pray deign to hear,
'Twill not disgrace thee--none are near,
And I this once a word would say,
As I am wending on my way;--
Behold that path wind through the grass,
Where many by thee daily pass;
See, where it ends, just on my brink,
Then frankly tell what thou dost think.
Both man and beast, when they are dry,
Come here and find a rich supply;
And many come for pleasure too,
When they have nothing else to do.
Bright pebbles in my waters lie,
Which have a charm in childhood's eye;
And little children stray from home,
Upon my sunny shores to roam;--
With me they play their artless pranks,
And gather flowers along my banks;--
Sweet flowers that shun thy gloomy shade,
And hither come to ask my aid.
The poet loves my 'simple song'--
With me he often tarries long;
He tells me that he wanders here,
To catch some new and bright idea,
Which makes his tuneful numbers roll,
In music that enchants the soul.
And people too of every class,
Come here their leisure hours to pass;