The Forest Rill.

Young Naiad of the sparry grot,         Whose azure eyes before me burn,     In what sequestered lonely spot         Lies hid thy flower-enwreathed urn?     Beneath what mossy bank enshrined,         Within what ivy-mantled nook,     Sheltered alike from sun and wind,         Lies hid thy source, sweet murmuring brook?     Deep buried lies thy airy shell         Beneath thy waters clear;     Far echoing up the woodland dell         Thy wind-swept harp I hear.     I catch its soft and mellow tones         Amid the long grass gliding,     Now broken 'gainst the rugged stones,         In hoarse, deep accents chiding.     The wandering breeze that stirs the grove,         In plaintive moans replying,     To every leafy bough above         His tender tale is sighing;     Ruffled beneath his viewless wing         Thy wavelets fret and wimple,     Now forth rejoicingly they spring         In many a laughing dimple.     To nature's timid lovely queen         Thy sylvan haunts are known;     She seeks thy rushy margin green         To weave her flowery zone;     Light waving o'er thy fairy flood         In all their vernal pride,     She sees her crown of opening buds         Reflected in the tide.     On--on!--for ever brightly on!         Thy lucid waves are flowing,     Thy waters sparkle as they run,         Their long, long journey going;     Bright flashing in the noon-tide beam         O'er stone and pebble breaking,     And onward to some mightier stream         Their slender tribute taking.     Oh such is life! a slender rill,         A stream impelled by Time;     To death's dark caverns flowing still,         To seek a brighter clime.     Though blackened by the stains of earth,         And broken be its course,     From life's pure fount we trace its birth,         Eternity its source!     While floating down the tide of years,         The Christian will not mourn her lot;     There is a hand will dry her tears,         A land where sorrows are forgot.     Though in the crowded page of time         The record of her name may die,     'Tis traced in annals more sublime,         The volume of Eternity!