And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots:
I slide by hazel covers;

I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows;

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy, wert thou with me.

And peasant-girls, with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;

Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine, Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me,

Though long before thy hand they touch

I know that they must withered be, -
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,

When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round: The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine? LORD BYRON.

ON THE RHINE.

'T WAS morn, and beautiful the mountain's brow

Hung with the clusters of the bending vine Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine We sailed and heard the waters round the prow In murmurs parting; varying as we go,

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire, As some gray convent wall or sunlit spire Starts up along the banks, unfolding slow. Here castles, like the prisons of despair, Frown as we pass; — there, on the vineyard's side,

The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide; While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair, Counts not the hours of a long summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

THE VALLEY BROOK.

FRESH from the fountains of the wood
A rivulet of the valley came,
And glided on for many a rood,

Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame.

The air was fresh and soft and sweet;

The slopes in spring's new verdure lay, And wet with dew-drops at my feet

Bloomed the young violets of May.

No sound of busy life was heard
Amid those pastures lone and still,
Save the faint chirp of early bird,
Or bleat of flocks along the hill.

I traced that rivulet's winding way;
New scenes of beauty opened round,
Where meads of brighter verdure lay,
And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground.

"Ah, happy valley stream!" I said,

"Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, Whose fragrance round thy path is shed Through all the joyous summer hours.

"O, could my years, like thine, be passed
In some remote and silent glen,
Where I could dwell and sleep at last,
Far from the bustling haunts of men!"

But what new echoes greet my ear?
The village school-boy's merry call;
And mid the village hum I hear
The murmur of the waterfall.

I looked; the widening vale betrayed
A pool that shone like burnished steel,
Where that bright valley stream was stayed
To turn the miller's ponderous wheel.

Ah! why should I, I thought with shame,
Sigh for a life of solitude,

When even this stream without a name
Is laboring for the common good.

No longer let me shun my part

Amid the busy scenes of life,

But with a warm and generous heart
Press onward in the glorious strife.

JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.

AFTON WATER.

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear;

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills!
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear
wave!

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE SHADED WATER.

WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise
And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke,

I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys
And sit me down beside this little brook;
The waters have a music to mine ear
It glads me much to hear.

It is a quiet glen, as you may see,

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, That spread their giant branches, broad and free, The silent growth of many centuries; And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, A sabbath of the woods.

Few know its quiet shelter, none, like me,
Do seek it out with such a fond desire,
Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree,

And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, When the far-traveling breeze, done wandering, Rests here his weary wing.

And all the day, with fancies ever new,

And sweet companions from their boundless store,

Of merry elves bespangled all with dew,

Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, I fling the hours away.