Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/235

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THE SONG OF THE STREAMS.
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Where the green trees wave and the fountains lave We dance to a merry tune,When beauty showers on the fleeting hours The light of the joyous noon;And Nature's smiles with the sweetest wiles Of sweetest song we woo,When the leaves are tinged and the bright flowers fringed With the sun's own golden hue;While choral notes from tiny throats Of the woodland minstrels swell,And come to the ear all soft and clear As a lingering, heaven-toned spell.
When childhood strays in the sunny days By one flowing, silver tide,We fondly sing to the gentle thing A song that he lists with pride.Then visions rise to the longing eyes Of the lovely cherub boy,As our tones impart to his dreaming heart Bright hopes of the future's joy;But oft he hears in his after years Our strains to his memory come,When deep griefs rest in his aching breast, Where the voice of hope is dumb.
And oft we breathe of a bright, bright wreath When the poet, wandering, dreams,Where all is mute save the sweet bird's lute And the song of the silver streams.And the hoary sage in the path of age Will list to our murmurs sweet,And commune oft with our voices soft Away in some lone retreat.We bring relief to the heart of grief When its woes to us are given,For we whisper tales in the silent vales That lead the soul to heaven.
We bound away, and our roundelay With the light-winged zephyr trills;We joy to leap from the sunny steep And dance on the distant hills.Away, away! we are glad and gay As the brightest things of earth;No voice have we but the voice of glee— 'Tis the music of Nature's mirth.
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