Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE STREAMS, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE STREAMS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ye have been holy, o founts and floods!
Last Line: Making the heart a shrine!
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): Brooks; Streams; Creeks


YE have been holy, O founts and floods!
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods,
Ye that are born of the valleys deep,
With the water-flowers on your breast asleep,
And ye that gush from the sounding caves --
Hallowed have been your waves.

Hallowed by man, in his dreams of old,
Unto beings not of this mortal mould,
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers,
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours,
And sought with its fancied sound to still
The heart earth could not fill.

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone,
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams! were thrown
Thousands of gifts, to the sunny sea
Have ye swept along in your wanderings free,
And thrilled to the murmur of many a
Where all is silent now!

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been
So linked in love to your margins green;
That still, though ruined, your early shrines
In beauty gleam through the southern vines,
And the ivied chapels of colder skies,
On your wild banks arise.

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth,
Are those, bright streams! where your springs have birth;
Whether their caverned murmur fills,
With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills,
Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow
Is heard 'midst the hamlets low.

Or whether ye gladden the desert-sands,
With a joyous music to pilgrim bands,
And a flash from under some ancient rock,
Where a shepherd-king might have watched his flock,
Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads,
And a green Acacia spreads.

Or whether, in bright old lands renowned,
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound.
And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine,
Sweeps with the breeze o'er your gleaming line,
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves,
Beside heroic graves.

Voices and lights oi the lonely place!
By the freshest fern your path we trace;
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss,
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss,
By the rainbow-glancing of insect-wings,
In a thousand mazy rings.

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers
Are all your own through the summer-hours;
There the proud stag his fair image knows,
Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs,
And the Halcyon's breast, like the skies arrayed,
Gleams through the willow-shade.

But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays
Peopled your banks in the olden days,
And the memory left by departed love,
To your antique founts in glen and grove,
And the glory born of the poet's dreams --
These are your charms, bright streams!

Now is the time of your flowery rites,
Gone by with its dances and young delights:
From your marble urns ye have burst away,
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day;
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown, --
And the woods again are lone.

Yet holy still be your living springs,
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things!
Holy, to converse with Nature's lore,
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more,
And to silent thoughts of the love divine,
Making the heart a shrine!





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