BROOK little known whose waters run Along a wild and hidden bed, Like thee the busy world I shun And love the wilderness instead. Brook in forgetfulness now drown The sorrows of my past forlorn, And leave within my soul alone The peace that on thy tide is borne. Thy banks are dear to lilies pale And to the lowly marguerite; And by thy stream the nightingale Doth warble out his passion sweet. And nigh thee from the soul in peace Doth fall the burden of its sin; Thou all its sorrow dost release With murmurs of thy tuneful lin. When may I in drear autumn days Along the course of thy clear stream Hear the soft sound of shaken sprays Or the lone lapwing's plaintive scream? Ah! how I love this ancient shrine, These walls whereon the flames have fed, These pious bells that still repine With wistful music overhead! Now on the road a mother heeds Their summoning, far wanderéd; Her little daughter whom she leads Says "Amen!" as she bows her head. Where dwelt a vestal sisterhood Once saw I cloister'd rivers run That poured their solitary flood By altars of the Holy One. Their crystal waters wanderéd By arch and plinth in mystic wise Where these fair angel-girls did tread The blesséd fields of Paradise. My humble brook thy stream in flight— So short a life is ours below— Reminds me, thine own eremite, How Time's swift stream doth ever flow. |