Perchance it singeth a tuneful song,
A song to the pebbles rude,
Or tells them a tale, as it glideth along,
Of joy and gratitude;
A tale that softeneth hearts of stone,
But theirs are hard, and it hurrieth on,
For it may not stay, it may not stay
On its master's errand, night or day.
It claspeth the hand of its brother streams,
And runneth a merrier race,
As down the far cliff, where the eagle screams,
They gladly leap ; or through meadows sheen,
Tracked by their fringe of a brighter green,
Rush on to its embrace.
Anon, it spreadeth a broader tide,
And over its breast the fisher's boat
And the snowy sail doth lightly float,
Till in the fullness of beauty's pride,
And veiled in mist, like a graceful bride,
It plighteth its faith, at the ocean's brim,
And the marriage-song is his thunder-hymn.
But thou, along whose banks we stray,
'T was not for thee to choose,
Mid quiet flowers and reeds thy way,
Nor with the whispering willows play,
That idly droop and muse.
