No phantom rose to tell of future ill,
No grisly warning marr'd my prophet dreams--
My heart translucent as the leaping rill,
My thoughts all free and flashing at its beams.

Here is the grassy knoll I used to seek
At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade,
And watch the flowers that stooped with glowing cheek,
To meet the romping ripples as they played.

Here is the spot which memory's magic glass
Hath often brought, arrayed in fadeless green,
Making this oak, this brook, this waving grass--
A simple group--fond Nature's fairest scene.

And as I roamed beside the Rhone or Rhine,
Or other favored stream, in after days,
With jealous love, this rivulet would shine,
Full on my heart, and claim accustomed praise.

And oh! how oft by sorrow overborne,
By care oppressed, or bitter malice wrung,
By friends betrayed, or disappointment torn,
My weary heart, all sickened and unstrung--

Hath yearned to leave the bootless strife afar,
And find beneath this oak a quiet grave,
Where the rough echo of the world's loud jar,
Yields to the music of the mellow wave!