The Streamlet

CAN scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood

Thy upland forest or thy valley’s flood?

Seek then thy garden’s shrubby bound, and look,

As it steals by, upon the bordering brook;

That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow,

Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow;

Where in the midst, upon her throne of green,

Sits the large lily as the water’s queen;

And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,

Murmur and bubble as it shoots away.