How beautiful, how brief, those sunny hours
      Departed now, when life was in its spring—­
    When Fancy knew no scene undecked with flowers,
      And Expectation flew on Fancy’s wing!

    Here, on the bank, beside this whispering stream,
      Which still runs by as gayly as of yore,
    Marking its eddies, I was wont to dream
      Of things away, on some far fairy shore.

    Then every whirling leaf and bubbling ball,
      That floated by, was full of radiant thought;
    Each linked with love, had music at its call,
      And thrilling echoes o’er my bosom brought.

    The bird that sang within this gnarled oak,
      The waves that dallied with its leafy shade,
    The mellow murmurs from its boughs that broke,
      Their joyous tribute to my spirit paid.

    No phantom rose to tell of future ill,
      No grisly warning marr’d my prophet dreams—­
    My heart translucent as the leaping rill,
      My thoughts all free and flashing at its beams.

    Here is the grassy knoll I used to seek
      At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade,
    And watch the flowers that stooped with glowing cheek,
      To meet the romping ripples as they played.

    Here is the spot which memory’s magic glass
      Hath often brought, arrayed in fadeless green,
    Making this oak, this brook, this waving grass—­
      A simple group—­fond Nature’s fairest scene.

    And as I roamed beside the Rhone or Rhine,
      Or other favored stream, in after days,
    With jealous love, this rivulet would shine,
      Full on my heart, and claim accustomed praise.

    And oh! how oft by sorrow overborne,
      By care oppressed, or bitter malice wrung,
    By friends betrayed, or disappointment torn,
      My weary heart, all sickened and unstrung—­

    Hath yearned to leave the bootless strife afar,
      And find beneath this oak a quiet grave,
    Where the rough echo of the world’s loud jar,
      Yields to the music of the mellow wave!

    And now again I stand this stream beside;
      Again I hear the silver ripples flow—­
    I mark the whispers murmuring o’er the tide,
      And the light bubbles trembling as they go.

    But oh! the magic-spell that lingered here,
      In boyhood’s golden age, my heart to bless,
    With the bright waves that rippled then so clear,
      Is lost in ocean’s dull forgetfulness.

    Gone are the visions of that glorious time—­
      Gone are the glancing birds I loved so well,
    Nor will they wake again their silver chime,
      From the deep tomb of night in which they dwell!

    And if perchance some fleeting memories steal,
      Like far-off echoes to my dreaming ear,
    Away, ungrasped, the cheating visions wheel,
      As spectres start upon the wing of fear.