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POEMS.
Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who stealFrom shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and startIf other sounds than thine are in the air. Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bringPollution to thy channel and make foulThy once clear current; summon thy quick wavesAnd dimpling eddies; linger not, but haste,With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep,There to be tossed by shifting winds and rockedBy that mysterious force which lives withinThe sea's immensity, and wields the weightOf its abysses, swaying to and froThe billowy mass, until the stain, at length,hall wholly pass away, and thou regainThe crystal brightness of thy mountain springs.
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