Beautiful streamlet! how precious to meWas the green-swarded paradise water'd by thee;I dream of thee still, as thou wert in my youth,Thy meanderings haunt me with freshness and truth.
I had heard of full many a river of fame,With its wide rolling flood, and its classical name;But the Thames of Old England, the Tiber of Rome,Could not peer with the mill-streamlet close to my home.
Full well I remember the gravelly spot,Where I slyly repair'd though I knew I ought not;Where I stood with my handful of pebbles to make.That formation of fancy, a duck and a drake.
How severe was the scolding, how heavy the threat,When my pinafore hung on me dirty and wet;How heedlessly silent I stood to be told.Of the danger of drowning, the risk of a cold!
"Now mark!" cried a mother, "the mischief done there.Is unbearable—go to that stream if you dare!"But I sped to that stream like a frolicsome colt,For I knew that her thunder-cloud carried no holt.
Though puzzled with longitude, adverb and noun,Till my forehead was sunk in a studious frown;Yet that stream was a Lethe that swept from my soul.The grammar, the globes, and the tutor's control.
I wonder if still the young anglers begin,As I did, with willow-wand, packthread, and pin;When I threw in my line, with expectancy high.As to perch in my basket, and eels in a pie:
When I watched every bubble that broke on a weed,Yet found I caught nothing but lily and reed;Till time and discernment began to instilThe manoeuvres of Walton with infinite skill.
Full soon I discover'd the birch-shadow'd placeThat nurtured the trout and the silver-backed dace;Where the coming of night found me blest and content,With my patience unworn, and my fishing-rod bent.
How fresh were the flags on the stone-studded ridge,That rudely supported the narrow oak bridge:And that bridge, oh! how boldly and safely I ranOn the thin plank that now I should timidly scan.
I traversed it often at fall of the night,When the clouds of December shut out the moon's light;A mother might tremble, but I never did;For my footing was sure, though the pale stars were hid.
When the breath of stern winter had fetter'd the tide,What joy to career on its feet-warming slide;With mirth in each eye, and bright health on each cheek,While the gale in our faces came piercing and bleak.
The snow-flakes fell thick on our wind-roughen'd curls,But we laugh'd as we shook off the feathery pearls;And the running, the tripping, the pull and the haulHad a glorious end in the slip and the sprawl.
Oh! I loved the wild place where the clear ripples flow'dOn their serpentine way o'er the pebble-strew'd road;Where, mounted on Dobbin, we youngsters would dash;Both pony and rider enjoying the splash.
How often I tried to teach Pincher the tricks.Of diving for pebbles and swimming for sticks;But my doctrines could never induce the loved bruteTo consider hydraulics a pleasant pursuit.
Did a forcible argument sometimes prevail,What a woful expression was seen in his tail;And, though bitterly vex'd, I was made to agree,That Dido, the spaniel, swam better than he.
What pleasure it was to spring forth in the sun,When the school-door was oped, and our lessons were done;When "Where shall we play!" was the doubt and the call,And "Down by the mill-stream" was echo'd by all.
When tired of childhood's rude, boisterous pranks,We pull'd the tall rushes that grew on its banks;And, busily quiet, we sat ourselves downTo weave the rough basket, or plait the light crown.
I remember the launch of our fairy-built ship,How we set her white sails, pull'd her anchor atrip;Till mischievous hands, working hard at the craft,Turn'd the ship to a boat, and the boat to a raft.
The first of my doggerel breathings was there,—'Twas the hope of a poet, "An Ode to Despair;"I won't vouch for its metre, its sense, or its rhyme,But I know that I then thought it truly sublime.
Beautiful streamlet! I dream of thee still,Of thy pouring cascade, and the tic-tac-ing mill;Thou livest in memory, and will not depart,For thy waters seem blent with the streams of my heart.
Home of my youth! if I go to thee now,None can remember my voice or my brow;None can remember the sunny-faced child,That play'd by the water-mill, joyous and wild.
The aged, who laid their thin hands on my head,To smooth my dark, shining curls, rest with the dead;The young, who partook of my sports and my glee,Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me.
Beautiful streamlet! I sought thee again,But the changes that mark'd thee awaken'd deep pain;Desolation had reign'd, thou wert not as of yore—Home of my Childhood, I'll see thee no more!
