XV.The Streams.

A volume of general selections from English rural verse would be incomplete without some passage from Denham’s poem of “Cooper’s Hill”—a poem so highly lauded by past generations, and which we still read to-day with admiration. Sir John Denham is one of those poets who have met with very opposite treatment from critics of different generations; after receiving the highest commendations from Dryden, from Johnson, from Pope, from Somerville, his bays have been very severely handled in our own time. But allowing him to have been over-praised at one period, shall we for that reason refuse ourselves the pleasure he is assuredly capable of affording us? Is not “Cooper’s Hill” a fine old poem of the second class, which the nineteenth century does well to read once in a while? The celebrated lines, quoted a thousand times,

“Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull,Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full,”

“Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull,

Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full,”

were amusingly parodied some fifty years ago by Mr. Soame Jenyns, in his satire upon an unfledged, ignorant memberling of Parliament:

“Without experience, honesty, or sense,Unknowing in her interests, trade, or laws,He vainly undertakes his country’s cause;Forth from his lips, prepared at all to rail,Torrents of nonsense flow like bottled ale;Though shallow, muddy; brisk, though mighty dull;Fierce without strength; o’erflowing, though not full.”

“Without experience, honesty, or sense,

Unknowing in her interests, trade, or laws,

He vainly undertakes his country’s cause;

Forth from his lips, prepared at all to rail,

Torrents of nonsense flow like bottled ale;

Though shallow, muddy; brisk, though mighty dull;

Fierce without strength; o’erflowing, though not full.”

ARIEL’S SONG.

Come unto these yellow sands,And then take hands;Curt’sied when you have, and kind(The wild waves whist),Foot it featly, here and there;And, sweet sprites, the burden bear!Hark! hark!The watch-dogs bark;Hark! hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry cock-a-doodle-doo!Shakspeare.

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands;

Curt’sied when you have, and kind

(The wild waves whist),

Foot it featly, here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear!

Hark! hark!

The watch-dogs bark;

Hark! hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer

Cry cock-a-doodle-doo!

Shakspeare.

FROM “COOPER’S HILL.”

Thames, the most lov’d of all the Ocean’s sons,By his old sire, to his embraces runs;Hasty to pay his tribute to the sea,Like mortal life to meet eternity,Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold,His genuine and less guilty wealth t’ explore,Search not his bottoms, but survey his shore,O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring;Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,Like mothers who their infants overlay;Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.No unexpected inundations spoilThe mower’s hopes, or mock the plowman’s toil;But God-like his unwearied bounty flows;First loves to do, then loves the good he does.Nor are his blessings to his banks confin’d,But free and common, as the sea or wind;When he to boast or to disperse his stores,Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,Visits the world, and in his flying tow’rsBrings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;Finds wealth where ’tis, bestows it where it wants—Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants.So that to us no thing, no place is strange,While his fair bosom is the world’s exchange.O could I flow like thee, and make thy streamMy great example, as it is my theme!Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full.Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast,Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, lost;Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove’s abodes,To shine among the stars and bathe the gods.Here nature, whether more intent to pleaseUs or herself, with strange varieties,(For things of wonder give no less delightTo the wise Maker’s than beholders’ sight;Though these delights from sev’ral causes move,For so our children, thus our friends we love),Wisely she knew the harmony of things,As well as that of sounds, from discord springs.Such was the discord which did first disperseForm, order, beauty, through the universe;While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists,All that we have, and that we are, subsists;While the steep, horrid roughness of the woodStrives with the gentle calmness of the flood,Such huge extremes, when Nature doth unite,Wonder from thence results, from thence delight.The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear,That had the self-enamor’d youth gaz’d here,So fatally deceiv’d he had not been,While he the bottom, not his face, had seen.But his proud head the airy mountain hidesAmong the clouds; his shoulders and his sideA shady mantle clothes; his curled browsFrown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows;While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat,The common fate of all that’s high or great.Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac’d,Between the mountain and the stream embrac’d;Which shade and shelter from the hill derives,While the kind river wealth and beauty gives;And in the mixture of all these appearsVariety, which all the rest endears.Sir John Denham, 1618–1668.

Thames, the most lov’d of all the Ocean’s sons,

By his old sire, to his embraces runs;

Hasty to pay his tribute to the sea,

Like mortal life to meet eternity,

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,

Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold,

His genuine and less guilty wealth t’ explore,

Search not his bottoms, but survey his shore,

O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,

And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring;

Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,

Like mothers who their infants overlay;

Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.

No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower’s hopes, or mock the plowman’s toil;

But God-like his unwearied bounty flows;

First loves to do, then loves the good he does.

Nor are his blessings to his banks confin’d,

But free and common, as the sea or wind;

When he to boast or to disperse his stores,

Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,

Visits the world, and in his flying tow’rs

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;

Finds wealth where ’tis, bestows it where it wants—

Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants.

So that to us no thing, no place is strange,

While his fair bosom is the world’s exchange.

O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream

My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;

Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full.

Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast,

Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, lost;

Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove’s abodes,

To shine among the stars and bathe the gods.

Here nature, whether more intent to please

Us or herself, with strange varieties,

(For things of wonder give no less delight

To the wise Maker’s than beholders’ sight;

Though these delights from sev’ral causes move,

For so our children, thus our friends we love),

Wisely she knew the harmony of things,

As well as that of sounds, from discord springs.

Such was the discord which did first disperse

Form, order, beauty, through the universe;

While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists,

All that we have, and that we are, subsists;

While the steep, horrid roughness of the wood

Strives with the gentle calmness of the flood,

Such huge extremes, when Nature doth unite,

Wonder from thence results, from thence delight.

The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear,

That had the self-enamor’d youth gaz’d here,

So fatally deceiv’d he had not been,

While he the bottom, not his face, had seen.

But his proud head the airy mountain hides

Among the clouds; his shoulders and his side

A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows

Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows;

While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat,

The common fate of all that’s high or great.

Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac’d,

Between the mountain and the stream embrac’d;

Which shade and shelter from the hill derives,

While the kind river wealth and beauty gives;

And in the mixture of all these appears

Variety, which all the rest endears.

Sir John Denham, 1618–1668.

It is no little recommendation of the rivers we met with here, that almost every one of them is the subject of some pleasing Scotch ditty, which the scene brings to the memory of those who are versed in the lyrics of the country. The elegant simplicity of the verse, and the soothing melody of the music, in almost all the Scotch songs, is universally acknowledged: “Tweed-side, andEttrick’s Banks,” are not among the least pleasing.

Gilpin’s“Highlands of Scotland,” 1789.

On Leven’s banks, while free to rove,And tune the rural pipe to love,I envied not the happiest swainThat ever trod the Arcadian plain.Pure stream! in whose transparent waveMy youthful limbs I wont to lave;No torrents stain thy limpid source;No rocks impede thy dimpling course,That sweetly warbles o’er its bed,With white, round, polish’d pebbles spread;While, lightly pois’d, the scaly brood,In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;The springing trout in speckled pride;The salmon, monarch of the tide;The ruthless pike, intent on war;The silver eel, and mottled par,Devolving from thy parent lake,A charming maze thy waters make,By bowers of birds, and groves of pine,And hedges flower’d with eglantine.Still on thy banks so gayly green,May num’rous herds and flocks be seen,And lasses chanting o’er the pail,And shepherds piping in the dale,And ancient Faith, that knows no guile,And Industry embrown’d with toil,And hearts resolved, and hands prepar’d,The blessings they enjoy to guard.Tobias Smollett, 1720–1771.

On Leven’s banks, while free to rove,

And tune the rural pipe to love,

I envied not the happiest swain

That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent wave

My youthful limbs I wont to lave;

No torrents stain thy limpid source;

No rocks impede thy dimpling course,

That sweetly warbles o’er its bed,

With white, round, polish’d pebbles spread;

While, lightly pois’d, the scaly brood,

In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;

The springing trout in speckled pride;

The salmon, monarch of the tide;

The ruthless pike, intent on war;

The silver eel, and mottled par,

Devolving from thy parent lake,

A charming maze thy waters make,

By bowers of birds, and groves of pine,

And hedges flower’d with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gayly green,

May num’rous herds and flocks be seen,

And lasses chanting o’er the pail,

And shepherds piping in the dale,

And ancient Faith, that knows no guile,

And Industry embrown’d with toil,

And hearts resolved, and hands prepar’d,

The blessings they enjoy to guard.

Tobias Smollett, 1720–1771.

FROM THE GERMAN.

See the rocky spring,Clear as joy,Like a sweet star gleaming!O’er the clouds, heIn his youth was cradledBy good spirits,'Neath the bushes in the cliffs.Fresh with youthFrom the cloud he dancesDown upon the rocky pavement;Thence, exulting,Leaps to heaven.For a while he dalliesRound the summit,Through its little channels chasingMotley pebbles round and round;Quick, then, like determined leader,Hurries all his brother streamletsOff with him.There, all round him in the vale,Flowers spring up beneath his footstep,And the meadowWakes to feel his breath.But him holds no shady vale—No cool blossoms,Which around his knees are clinging,And with loving eyes entreatingPassing notice; on he speeds,Winding snake-like.Social brookletsAdd their waters. Now he rollsO’er the plain in silvery splendor,And the plain his splendor borrows;And the rivulets from the plain,And the brooklets from the hill-sides,All are shouting to him, “Brother,Brother, take thy brothers too—Take us to thy ancient Father,To the everlasting Ocean,Who, e’en now, with outstretched arms,Waits for us—Arms outstretched, alas! in vain,To embrace his longing ones;For the greedy sand devours us;Or the burning sun above usSucks our life-blood; or some hillockHems us into ponds. Ah! brother,Take thy brothers from the plain—Take thy brothers from the hill-sidesWith thee, to our Sire with thee!”“Come ye all, then!”Now, more proudly,On he swells; a countless race, theyBear their glorious prince aloft!On he rolls triumphantlyGiving names to countries; citiesSpring to being 'neath his feet.Onward with incessant roaring,See! he passes proudly byFlaming turrets, marble mansions—Creatures of his fullness, all!Cedar houses bears this AtlasOn his giant shoulders; rustling,Flapping in the playful breezes,Thousand flags about his head areTelling of his majesty.And so bears he all his brothers,And his treasures, and his children,To their Sire, all joyous roaring—Pressing to his mighty heart.Translation ofJ. S. Dwight.Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe, 1749–1832.

See the rocky spring,Clear as joy,Like a sweet star gleaming!O’er the clouds, heIn his youth was cradledBy good spirits,'Neath the bushes in the cliffs.

See the rocky spring,

Clear as joy,

Like a sweet star gleaming!

O’er the clouds, he

In his youth was cradled

By good spirits,

'Neath the bushes in the cliffs.

Fresh with youthFrom the cloud he dancesDown upon the rocky pavement;Thence, exulting,Leaps to heaven.

Fresh with youth

From the cloud he dances

Down upon the rocky pavement;

Thence, exulting,

Leaps to heaven.

For a while he dalliesRound the summit,Through its little channels chasingMotley pebbles round and round;Quick, then, like determined leader,Hurries all his brother streamletsOff with him.

For a while he dallies

Round the summit,

Through its little channels chasing

Motley pebbles round and round;

Quick, then, like determined leader,

Hurries all his brother streamlets

Off with him.

There, all round him in the vale,Flowers spring up beneath his footstep,And the meadowWakes to feel his breath.But him holds no shady vale—No cool blossoms,Which around his knees are clinging,And with loving eyes entreatingPassing notice; on he speeds,Winding snake-like.

There, all round him in the vale,

Flowers spring up beneath his footstep,

And the meadow

Wakes to feel his breath.

But him holds no shady vale—

No cool blossoms,

Which around his knees are clinging,

And with loving eyes entreating

Passing notice; on he speeds,

Winding snake-like.

Social brookletsAdd their waters. Now he rollsO’er the plain in silvery splendor,And the plain his splendor borrows;And the rivulets from the plain,And the brooklets from the hill-sides,All are shouting to him, “Brother,Brother, take thy brothers too—Take us to thy ancient Father,To the everlasting Ocean,Who, e’en now, with outstretched arms,Waits for us—Arms outstretched, alas! in vain,To embrace his longing ones;For the greedy sand devours us;Or the burning sun above usSucks our life-blood; or some hillockHems us into ponds. Ah! brother,Take thy brothers from the plain—Take thy brothers from the hill-sidesWith thee, to our Sire with thee!”“Come ye all, then!”Now, more proudly,On he swells; a countless race, theyBear their glorious prince aloft!On he rolls triumphantlyGiving names to countries; citiesSpring to being 'neath his feet.

Social brooklets

Add their waters. Now he rolls

O’er the plain in silvery splendor,

And the plain his splendor borrows;

And the rivulets from the plain,

And the brooklets from the hill-sides,

All are shouting to him, “Brother,

Brother, take thy brothers too—

Take us to thy ancient Father,

To the everlasting Ocean,

Who, e’en now, with outstretched arms,

Waits for us—

Arms outstretched, alas! in vain,

To embrace his longing ones;

For the greedy sand devours us;

Or the burning sun above us

Sucks our life-blood; or some hillock

Hems us into ponds. Ah! brother,

Take thy brothers from the plain—

Take thy brothers from the hill-sides

With thee, to our Sire with thee!”

“Come ye all, then!”

Now, more proudly,

On he swells; a countless race, they

Bear their glorious prince aloft!

On he rolls triumphantly

Giving names to countries; cities

Spring to being 'neath his feet.

Onward with incessant roaring,See! he passes proudly byFlaming turrets, marble mansions—Creatures of his fullness, all!

Onward with incessant roaring,

See! he passes proudly by

Flaming turrets, marble mansions—

Creatures of his fullness, all!

Cedar houses bears this AtlasOn his giant shoulders; rustling,Flapping in the playful breezes,Thousand flags about his head areTelling of his majesty.

Cedar houses bears this Atlas

On his giant shoulders; rustling,

Flapping in the playful breezes,

Thousand flags about his head are

Telling of his majesty.

And so bears he all his brothers,And his treasures, and his children,To their Sire, all joyous roaring—Pressing to his mighty heart.Translation ofJ. S. Dwight.Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe, 1749–1832.

And so bears he all his brothers,

And his treasures, and his children,

To their Sire, all joyous roaring—

Pressing to his mighty heart.

Translation ofJ. S. Dwight.Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe, 1749–1832.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leaveThe lovely vale that lies around thee!Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,When but a fount the morning found thee?Born when the skies began to glow,Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters,No blossom bowed its stalk to showWhere stole thy still and scanty waters.Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,Usurping, as thou downward driftest,Its crystal from the clearest brook,Its rushing current from the swiftest.Ah! what wild haste—and all to beA river, and expire in ocean!Each fountain’s tribute hurries theeTo that vast grave with quicker motion.Far better ’twere to linger stillIn this green vale these flowers to cherish,And die in peace, an aged rill,Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.Translation ofW. C. Bryant.Pedro de Castro,17th Century.

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leaveThe lovely vale that lies around thee!Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,When but a fount the morning found thee?

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave

The lovely vale that lies around thee!

Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,

When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters,No blossom bowed its stalk to showWhere stole thy still and scanty waters.

Born when the skies began to glow,

Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters,

No blossom bowed its stalk to show

Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,Usurping, as thou downward driftest,Its crystal from the clearest brook,Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,

Usurping, as thou downward driftest,

Its crystal from the clearest brook,

Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Ah! what wild haste—and all to beA river, and expire in ocean!Each fountain’s tribute hurries theeTo that vast grave with quicker motion.

Ah! what wild haste—and all to be

A river, and expire in ocean!

Each fountain’s tribute hurries thee

To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better ’twere to linger stillIn this green vale these flowers to cherish,And die in peace, an aged rill,Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.Translation ofW. C. Bryant.Pedro de Castro,17th Century.

Far better ’twere to linger still

In this green vale these flowers to cherish,

And die in peace, an aged rill,

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.

Translation ofW. C. Bryant.Pedro de Castro,17th Century.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Unperishing youth!Thou leapest from forthThe cleft of the rock;No mortal eye sawThe mighty one’s cradle;No ear ever heardThe lofty one’s lisp in the murmuring springHow beautiful art thou,In silvery locks!How terrible art thou,When the cliffs are resounding in thunder around!Thee feareth the fir-tree;Thou crushest the fir-treeFrom its root to its crown.The cliffs flee before thee;The cliffs thou engraspest,And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown.The sun weaves around theeThe beams of its splendor;It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris,The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray.Why speedest thou downward,Toward the green sea?Is it not well by the nearer heaven?Not well by the sounding cliff?Not well by the o’erhanging forest of oaks?O hasten not soToward the green sea!Youth! O now thou art strong, like a god!Free like a god!Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness,The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea;Now silvered o’er by the swimming moonshine;Now golden and red in the light of the west.Youth, O what is this silken quiet;What is the smile of the friendly moonlight—The purple and gold of the evening sun,To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses?Now streamest thou wildAs thy heart may prompt!But below oft ruleth the fickle tempest,Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea!O hasten not soToward the green sea!Youth, O now thou art strong, like a god,Free, like a god!Translation ofW. W. Story.Fr. Leop. Stolberg, 1750–1819.

Unperishing youth!

Thou leapest from forth

The cleft of the rock;

No mortal eye saw

The mighty one’s cradle;

No ear ever heard

The lofty one’s lisp in the murmuring spring

How beautiful art thou,

In silvery locks!

How terrible art thou,

When the cliffs are resounding in thunder around!

Thee feareth the fir-tree;

Thou crushest the fir-tree

From its root to its crown.

The cliffs flee before thee;

The cliffs thou engraspest,

And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown.

The sun weaves around theeThe beams of its splendor;It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris,The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray.

The sun weaves around thee

The beams of its splendor;

It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris,

The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray.

Why speedest thou downward,Toward the green sea?Is it not well by the nearer heaven?Not well by the sounding cliff?Not well by the o’erhanging forest of oaks?O hasten not soToward the green sea!Youth! O now thou art strong, like a god!Free like a god!Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness,The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea;Now silvered o’er by the swimming moonshine;Now golden and red in the light of the west.

Why speedest thou downward,

Toward the green sea?

Is it not well by the nearer heaven?

Not well by the sounding cliff?

Not well by the o’erhanging forest of oaks?

O hasten not so

Toward the green sea!

Youth! O now thou art strong, like a god!

Free like a god!

Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness,

The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea;

Now silvered o’er by the swimming moonshine;

Now golden and red in the light of the west.

Youth, O what is this silken quiet;What is the smile of the friendly moonlight—The purple and gold of the evening sun,To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses?Now streamest thou wildAs thy heart may prompt!But below oft ruleth the fickle tempest,Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea!

Youth, O what is this silken quiet;

What is the smile of the friendly moonlight—

The purple and gold of the evening sun,

To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses?

Now streamest thou wild

As thy heart may prompt!

But below oft ruleth the fickle tempest,

Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea!

O hasten not soToward the green sea!Youth, O now thou art strong, like a god,Free, like a god!Translation ofW. W. Story.Fr. Leop. Stolberg, 1750–1819.

O hasten not so

Toward the green sea!

Youth, O now thou art strong, like a god,

Free, like a god!

Translation ofW. W. Story.Fr. Leop. Stolberg, 1750–1819.

[Pastoral Scene]

A RIVER.

FROM “SALMONIA.”

Hal.I think I can promise you green meadows, shady trees, the song of the nightingale, and a full, clear river.

Poiet.This last is, in my opinion, the most poetical object in nature. I will not fail to obey your summons. Pliny has, as well as I recollect, compared a river to human life. I have never read the passage in his works but I have been a hundred times struck with the analogy, particularly amid mountain scenery. The river, small and clear at its origin, gushes forth from rocks, falls into deep glens, and wantons and meanders through a wild and picturesque country, nourishing only the uncultivated tree or flower by its dew or spray. In this, its state of infancy and youth, it may be compared to the human mind, in which fancy and strength of imagination are predominant—it is more beautiful than useful. When the different rills or torrents join, and descend into the plain, it becomes slow and stately in its motions; it is applied to move machinery, to irrigate meadows, and to bear upon its bosom the stately barge; in this mature state it is deep, strong, useful. As it flows on toward the sea, it loses its force and its motion, and at last, as it were, becomes lost, and mingled with the mighty abyss of waters.

Hal.One might pursue the metaphor still further, and say that in its origin—its thundering and foam, when it carries down clay from the bank, and becomes impure—it resembles the youthful mind affected by dangerous passions. And the influence of a lake, in calming and clearing the turbid water, may be compared to the effect of reason in more mature life, when the tranquil, deep, cool, and unimpassioned mind is freed from its fever, its troubles, bubbles, noise, and foam. And, above all, the sources of a river—which may be considered as belonging to the atmosphere—and its termination in the ocean, may be regarded as imaging the divine origin of the human mind, and its being ultimately returned to, and lost in, the Infinite and Eternal Intelligence from which it originally sprung.

Sir Humphrey Davy.

Life glides away, Lorenzo, like a brook;Forever changing, unperceiv’d the change.In the same brook none ever bathed him twice:To the same life none ever twice awoke.We call the brook the same; the same we thinkOur life, though still more rapid in its flow;Nor mark the much irrevocably laps’d,And mingled with the sea; or shall we say(Retaining still the brook to bear us on)That life is like a vessel on the stream?In life embark’d, we smoothly down the tideOf time descend, but not on time intent;Amus’d, unconscious of the gliding wave;Till on a sudden we perceive a shock;We start, awake, look out; our bark is burst!Edward Young, 1681–1755

Life glides away, Lorenzo, like a brook;

Forever changing, unperceiv’d the change.

In the same brook none ever bathed him twice:

To the same life none ever twice awoke.

We call the brook the same; the same we think

Our life, though still more rapid in its flow;

Nor mark the much irrevocably laps’d,

And mingled with the sea; or shall we say

(Retaining still the brook to bear us on)

That life is like a vessel on the stream?

In life embark’d, we smoothly down the tide

Of time descend, but not on time intent;

Amus’d, unconscious of the gliding wave;

Till on a sudden we perceive a shock;

We start, awake, look out; our bark is burst!

Edward Young, 1681–1755

FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

A traveler, when nearly exhausted by thirst, being guided by the croaking of a frog to a spring of water, afterward vowed to the Nymphs a bronze image of the little creature.

The servant of the Nymphs, the singer dank,Pleased with clear fountains—the shower-loving frog,Imaged in brass—hath a wayfaring manPlaced here, a votive gift—because it servedTo quench the fever of the traveler’s thirst.For the amphibious creature’s well-timed song,Croaked from its dewy grot, the wandering stepsOf him who searched for water hither drew;Not heedless of the guiding voice, he foundThe longed-for draught from the sweet cooling spring.Translation ofW. Hay.

The servant of the Nymphs, the singer dank,

Pleased with clear fountains—the shower-loving frog,

Imaged in brass—hath a wayfaring man

Placed here, a votive gift—because it served

To quench the fever of the traveler’s thirst.

For the amphibious creature’s well-timed song,

Croaked from its dewy grot, the wandering steps

Of him who searched for water hither drew;

Not heedless of the guiding voice, he found

The longed-for draught from the sweet cooling spring.

Translation ofW. Hay.

Little streams are light and shadow,Flowing through the pasture meadow—Flowing by the green way-side,Through the forest dim and wild,Through the hamlet still and small,By the cottage, by the hall,By the ruin’d abbey still,Turning here and there a mill,Bearing tribute to the river—Little streams, I love you ever.Summer music is there flowing—Flowering plants in them are growing;Happy life is in them all,Creatures innocent and small;Little birds come down to drink,Fearless of their leafy brink;Noble trees beside them grow,Glooming them with branches low;And between the sunshine glancingIn their little waves is dancing.Little streams have flowers a many,Beautiful and fair as any;Typha strong, and green bur-reed,Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;Arrow-head, with eye of jet,And the water-violet.There the flowering rush you meet,And the plumy meadow sweet;And in places deep and stilly,Marble-like, the water-lily.Little streams, their voices cheery,Sound forth welcomes to the weary;Flowing on from day to day,Without stint and without stay;Here, upon their flowery bank,In the old time pilgrims drank;Here have seen, as now, pass by,King-fisher, and dragon-fly;Those bright things that have their dwelling,Where the little streams are welling.Down in valleys green and lowly,Murmuring not and gliding slowly,Up in mountain-hollows wild,Fretting like a peevish child;Through the hamlet, where all dayIn their waves the children play;Running west, or running east,Doing good to man and beast—Always giving, weary never,Little streams, I love you ever.Mary Howitt.

Little streams are light and shadow,

Flowing through the pasture meadow—

Flowing by the green way-side,

Through the forest dim and wild,

Through the hamlet still and small,

By the cottage, by the hall,

By the ruin’d abbey still,

Turning here and there a mill,

Bearing tribute to the river—

Little streams, I love you ever.

Summer music is there flowing—Flowering plants in them are growing;Happy life is in them all,Creatures innocent and small;Little birds come down to drink,Fearless of their leafy brink;Noble trees beside them grow,Glooming them with branches low;And between the sunshine glancingIn their little waves is dancing.

Summer music is there flowing—

Flowering plants in them are growing;

Happy life is in them all,

Creatures innocent and small;

Little birds come down to drink,

Fearless of their leafy brink;

Noble trees beside them grow,

Glooming them with branches low;

And between the sunshine glancing

In their little waves is dancing.

Little streams have flowers a many,Beautiful and fair as any;Typha strong, and green bur-reed,Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;Arrow-head, with eye of jet,And the water-violet.There the flowering rush you meet,And the plumy meadow sweet;And in places deep and stilly,Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams have flowers a many,

Beautiful and fair as any;

Typha strong, and green bur-reed,

Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;

Arrow-head, with eye of jet,

And the water-violet.

There the flowering rush you meet,

And the plumy meadow sweet;

And in places deep and stilly,

Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery,Sound forth welcomes to the weary;Flowing on from day to day,Without stint and without stay;Here, upon their flowery bank,In the old time pilgrims drank;Here have seen, as now, pass by,King-fisher, and dragon-fly;Those bright things that have their dwelling,Where the little streams are welling.

Little streams, their voices cheery,

Sound forth welcomes to the weary;

Flowing on from day to day,

Without stint and without stay;

Here, upon their flowery bank,

In the old time pilgrims drank;

Here have seen, as now, pass by,

King-fisher, and dragon-fly;

Those bright things that have their dwelling,

Where the little streams are welling.

Down in valleys green and lowly,Murmuring not and gliding slowly,Up in mountain-hollows wild,Fretting like a peevish child;Through the hamlet, where all dayIn their waves the children play;Running west, or running east,Doing good to man and beast—Always giving, weary never,Little streams, I love you ever.Mary Howitt.

Down in valleys green and lowly,

Murmuring not and gliding slowly,

Up in mountain-hollows wild,

Fretting like a peevish child;

Through the hamlet, where all day

In their waves the children play;

Running west, or running east,

Doing good to man and beast—

Always giving, weary never,

Little streams, I love you ever.

Mary Howitt.

FROGS.

FROM THE GREEK OF ARISTOPHANES.

Bacchus.* * * * * *Hold your tongues, you tuneful creaturesFrogs.Cease with your profane entreaties,All in vain forever stirring;Silence is against our natures.With the vernal heat reviving,Our aquatic crew repairFrom their periodic sleep,In the dark and chilly deep,To the cheerful upper air;Then we frolic here and there,All amid the meadows fair;Shady plants of asphodel,Are the lodges where we dwell,Chanting in the leafy bowers,All the livelong summer hours,Till the sudden, gusty showersSend us headlong, helter-skelter,To the pool to seek for shelter;Meager, eager, leaping, lunging,From the sedgy wharfage plungingTo the tranquil depth below,Then we muster all a-row,Where, secure from toil and trouble,With a tuneful bubble-bubble,Our symphonious accents flow.Brikake-kesh, koàsh, koàsh.* * * * *Translation ofJ. H. Frere.

Bacchus.* * * * * *Hold your tongues, you tuneful creatures

Bacchus.* * * * * *

Hold your tongues, you tuneful creatures

Frogs.Cease with your profane entreaties,All in vain forever stirring;Silence is against our natures.With the vernal heat reviving,Our aquatic crew repairFrom their periodic sleep,In the dark and chilly deep,To the cheerful upper air;Then we frolic here and there,All amid the meadows fair;Shady plants of asphodel,Are the lodges where we dwell,Chanting in the leafy bowers,All the livelong summer hours,Till the sudden, gusty showersSend us headlong, helter-skelter,To the pool to seek for shelter;Meager, eager, leaping, lunging,From the sedgy wharfage plungingTo the tranquil depth below,Then we muster all a-row,Where, secure from toil and trouble,With a tuneful bubble-bubble,Our symphonious accents flow.Brikake-kesh, koàsh, koàsh.

Frogs.Cease with your profane entreaties,

All in vain forever stirring;

Silence is against our natures.

With the vernal heat reviving,

Our aquatic crew repair

From their periodic sleep,

In the dark and chilly deep,

To the cheerful upper air;

Then we frolic here and there,

All amid the meadows fair;

Shady plants of asphodel,

Are the lodges where we dwell,

Chanting in the leafy bowers,

All the livelong summer hours,

Till the sudden, gusty showers

Send us headlong, helter-skelter,

To the pool to seek for shelter;

Meager, eager, leaping, lunging,

From the sedgy wharfage plunging

To the tranquil depth below,

Then we muster all a-row,

Where, secure from toil and trouble,

With a tuneful bubble-bubble,

Our symphonious accents flow.

Brikake-kesh, koàsh, koàsh.

* * * * *

Translation ofJ. H. Frere.

Go up and mark the new-born rill,Just trickling from its mossy bed;Streaking the heath-clad hillWith a bright emerald thread.Canst thou her bold career foretell,What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend,How far in ocean’s swell,Her freshening billows send?Perchance that little brook shall flowThe bulwark of some mighty realm,Bear navies to and fro,With monarchs at their helm.Or canst thou guess how far awaySome sister nymph, beside her urn,Reclining night and day,'Mid reeds and mountain fern,Nurses her store, with thine to blend,When many a moor and glen are past;Then in the wide sea endTheir spotless lives at last?Even so the course of prayer who knows?It springs in silence when it will—Springs out of sight, and flowsAt first a lonely rill.But streams shall meet it by-and-by,From thousand sympathetic hearts—Together swelling high,Their chant of many parts.* * * * *John Keble.

Go up and mark the new-born rill,Just trickling from its mossy bed;Streaking the heath-clad hillWith a bright emerald thread.

Go up and mark the new-born rill,

Just trickling from its mossy bed;

Streaking the heath-clad hill

With a bright emerald thread.

Canst thou her bold career foretell,What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend,How far in ocean’s swell,Her freshening billows send?

Canst thou her bold career foretell,

What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend,

How far in ocean’s swell,

Her freshening billows send?

Perchance that little brook shall flowThe bulwark of some mighty realm,Bear navies to and fro,With monarchs at their helm.

Perchance that little brook shall flow

The bulwark of some mighty realm,

Bear navies to and fro,

With monarchs at their helm.

Or canst thou guess how far awaySome sister nymph, beside her urn,Reclining night and day,'Mid reeds and mountain fern,

Or canst thou guess how far away

Some sister nymph, beside her urn,

Reclining night and day,

'Mid reeds and mountain fern,

Nurses her store, with thine to blend,When many a moor and glen are past;Then in the wide sea endTheir spotless lives at last?

Nurses her store, with thine to blend,

When many a moor and glen are past;

Then in the wide sea end

Their spotless lives at last?

Even so the course of prayer who knows?It springs in silence when it will—Springs out of sight, and flowsAt first a lonely rill.

Even so the course of prayer who knows?

It springs in silence when it will—

Springs out of sight, and flows

At first a lonely rill.

But streams shall meet it by-and-by,From thousand sympathetic hearts—Together swelling high,Their chant of many parts.

But streams shall meet it by-and-by,

From thousand sympathetic hearts—

Together swelling high,

Their chant of many parts.

* * * * *

John Keble.

I wander’d in the woodland;My heart beat cold and slow,And not a tear of sorrow,To ease its weight, would flow.But soft a brook sang by me,“Ah! give thy grief to me,And I will bear it lightly,Far, far away from thee!”So sweet that lulling murmur,Its music thrill’d my heart,And, o’er the glad wave weeping,I felt my grief depart.Frances Sargent Osgood.

I wander’d in the woodland;My heart beat cold and slow,And not a tear of sorrow,To ease its weight, would flow.

I wander’d in the woodland;

My heart beat cold and slow,

And not a tear of sorrow,

To ease its weight, would flow.

But soft a brook sang by me,“Ah! give thy grief to me,And I will bear it lightly,Far, far away from thee!”

But soft a brook sang by me,

“Ah! give thy grief to me,

And I will bear it lightly,

Far, far away from thee!”

So sweet that lulling murmur,Its music thrill’d my heart,And, o’er the glad wave weeping,I felt my grief depart.Frances Sargent Osgood.

So sweet that lulling murmur,

Its music thrill’d my heart,

And, o’er the glad wave weeping,

I felt my grief depart.

Frances Sargent Osgood.

THE WAY-SIDE SPRING.

Fair dweller by the dusty way,Bright saint within a mossy shrine,The tribute of a heart to-day,Weary and worn, is thine.The earliest blossoms of the year,The sweet-brier and the violet,The pious hand of spring has hereUpon thy altar set.And not alone to thee is givenThe homage of the pilgrim’s knee;But oft the sweetest birds of heavenGlide down and sing to thee.Here daily from his beechen cell,The hermit squirrel steals to drink,And flocks which cluster to their bell,Recline along thy brink.And here the wagoner blocks his wheels,To quaff the cool and generous boon;Here from the sultry harvest fieldsThe reapers rest at noon.And oft the beggar masked with tan,In rusty garments gray with dust,Here sits and dips his little can,And breaks his scanty crust.And lulled beside thy whispering stream,Oft drops to slumber unawares,And sees the angel of his dreamUpon celestial stairs.Dear dweller by the dusty way,Thou saint within a mossy shrine.The tribute of a heart to day,Weary and worn, is thine!Thomas Buchanan Read.

Fair dweller by the dusty way,Bright saint within a mossy shrine,The tribute of a heart to-day,Weary and worn, is thine.

Fair dweller by the dusty way,

Bright saint within a mossy shrine,

The tribute of a heart to-day,

Weary and worn, is thine.

The earliest blossoms of the year,The sweet-brier and the violet,The pious hand of spring has hereUpon thy altar set.

The earliest blossoms of the year,

The sweet-brier and the violet,

The pious hand of spring has here

Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is givenThe homage of the pilgrim’s knee;But oft the sweetest birds of heavenGlide down and sing to thee.

And not alone to thee is given

The homage of the pilgrim’s knee;

But oft the sweetest birds of heaven

Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell,The hermit squirrel steals to drink,And flocks which cluster to their bell,Recline along thy brink.

Here daily from his beechen cell,

The hermit squirrel steals to drink,

And flocks which cluster to their bell,

Recline along thy brink.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels,To quaff the cool and generous boon;Here from the sultry harvest fieldsThe reapers rest at noon.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels,

To quaff the cool and generous boon;

Here from the sultry harvest fields

The reapers rest at noon.

And oft the beggar masked with tan,In rusty garments gray with dust,Here sits and dips his little can,And breaks his scanty crust.

And oft the beggar masked with tan,

In rusty garments gray with dust,

Here sits and dips his little can,

And breaks his scanty crust.

And lulled beside thy whispering stream,Oft drops to slumber unawares,And sees the angel of his dreamUpon celestial stairs.

And lulled beside thy whispering stream,

Oft drops to slumber unawares,

And sees the angel of his dream

Upon celestial stairs.

Dear dweller by the dusty way,Thou saint within a mossy shrine.The tribute of a heart to day,Weary and worn, is thine!Thomas Buchanan Read.

Dear dweller by the dusty way,

Thou saint within a mossy shrine.

The tribute of a heart to day,

Weary and worn, is thine!

Thomas Buchanan Read.

GULLS.

Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls striveAgainst the storm, or in the ocean dive,With eager scream, or when they dropping gaveTheir closing wings to sail upon the wave;Then as the winds and waters raged around,And breaking billows mix’d their deafening sound,They on the rolling deep securely hung,And calmly rode the restless waves among.Nor pleas’d it less around me to behold,Far up the beach the yesty sea-foam roll’d;Or from the shore upborne, to see on highIts frothy flakes in wild confusion fly;While the salt spray, that clashing billows form,Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm.George Crabbe, 1754–1832.

Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive

Against the storm, or in the ocean dive,

With eager scream, or when they dropping gave

Their closing wings to sail upon the wave;

Then as the winds and waters raged around,

And breaking billows mix’d their deafening sound,

They on the rolling deep securely hung,

And calmly rode the restless waves among.

Nor pleas’d it less around me to behold,

Far up the beach the yesty sea-foam roll’d;

Or from the shore upborne, to see on high

Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly;

While the salt spray, that clashing billows form,

Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm.

George Crabbe, 1754–1832.

Into the sunshine,Full of light,Leaping and flashing,From morn till night.Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-like,When the winds blow!Into the starlight,Rushing in spray,Happy at midnight—Happy by day!Ever in motion,Blithesome and cheery,Still climbing heavenward,Never aweary;Glad of all weathers,Still seeming best,Upward or downward,Motion thy rest;Full of a natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment—Ever the same;Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshine,Thy element;Glorious fountain!Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constantUpward, like thee!J. R. Lowell.

Into the sunshine,Full of light,Leaping and flashing,From morn till night.

Into the sunshine,

Full of light,

Leaping and flashing,

From morn till night.

Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-like,When the winds blow!

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,

Waving so flower-like,

When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,Rushing in spray,Happy at midnight—Happy by day!

Into the starlight,

Rushing in spray,

Happy at midnight—

Happy by day!

Ever in motion,Blithesome and cheery,Still climbing heavenward,Never aweary;

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,

Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers,Still seeming best,Upward or downward,Motion thy rest;

Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best,

Upward or downward,

Motion thy rest;

Full of a natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment—Ever the same;

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,

Changed every moment—

Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshine,Thy element;

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,

Darkness or sunshine,

Thy element;

Glorious fountain!Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constantUpward, like thee!J. R. Lowell.

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be

Fresh, changeful, constant

Upward, like thee!

J. R. Lowell.

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