Brook, The

The brooklet dancing through the glen, 
   With willows bending over,
Has blessings for the sons of men, 
   A boon for every lover:
Of her the poet learns to sing 
   His tenderest canzonetta;
Here maidens come such love to bring
   As makes all love its debtor.

The dusty lad in tattered frock, 
   The rough and sturdy farmer,
The traveler leaning on the rock, 
   Have here an equal charmer.
The frolic boys from school and mill,
   The gay and rosy misses,
Drink health and pleasure from the rill
   In all her rippled kisses.

The violet on the mossy brink, 
   The bluebirds in the hazels,
Repay with song and sweets the drink
   That stings not though it dazzles.
And oh! forgiving every slight 
   Of wretched souls who leave her, 
She bathes away the stains of night 
   And cools their burning fever.

The whiteness of the simple soul
   She welcomes and enhances,
And shames the votaries of the bowl 
   With pure, inviting glances.
Ho! fill your beakers from the brook—
   The white urn of the Naiads;
And life shall take as fresh a look 
   As to the turf their play adds.