On the river's brink the emigrant's child
Passed all his lonely hours,
He laughed when he ruffled the bosom mild
Of the flowing streamlet so bright and wild,
As it bore his boon of flowers.

Soon the throng of the forest heard the horn
Of the boat, the commerce boat;
Then they started up from the brake and thorn,
And hastening away by the light of the morn,
They fled from cavern and moat.

And the bird peeped out of a pine tree tower,
And shrank away at the sight,
The humming-bird fled to his rose-hung bower,
The bright bee curled himself snug in a flower,
O'ertaken by fear and fright.

And the river which rolled for ages, still
In a gentle flow unriven,
Now bears on its bosom by man's proud will,
By the arts of industry and skill,
The blessings to mortals given.

Over its billows the steamboats tread,
With their waters rushing high,
Or the snowy sail to the wind is spread,
As the noble bark on her way is sped
To the crowded city nigh.