But still her voice had not been heard,
   Had not a zephyr, ling’ring round,
   In friendly mood, caught up the sound,
   And flying round the monarch’s head,
   Breathed in his ear the words she said. 
   The streamlet, with a deep drawn sigh,
   In silv’ry tones, made this reply: 
   “Illustrious oak, pray deign to hear,
   ’Twill not disgrace thee—­none are near,
   And I this once a word would say,
   As I am wending on my way;—­
   Behold that path wind through the grass,
   Where many by thee daily pass;
   See, where it ends, just on my brink,
   Then frankly tell what thou dost think. 
   Both man and beast, when they are dry,
   Come here and find a rich supply;
   And many come for pleasure too,
   When they have nothing else to do. 
   Bright pebbles in my waters lie,
   Which have a charm in childhood’s eye;
   And little children stray from home,
   Upon my sunny shores to roam;—­
   With me they play their artless pranks,
   And gather flowers along my banks;—­
   Sweet flowers that shun thy gloomy shade,
   And hither come to ask my aid. 
   The poet loves my ’simple song’—­
   With me he often tarries long;
   He tells me that he wanders here,
   To catch some new and bright idea,
   Which makes his tuneful numbers roll,
   In music that enchants the soul. 
   And people too of every class,
   Come here their leisure hours to pass;
   I often feel the warm embrace
   Of ruby lips upon my face,
   For those who never bend the knee
   To haughty monarchs, just like thee,
   Will fall down prostrate at my side. 
   And kiss the face thou dost deride. 
   Thou sayest, thou art very neat,
   And I, the slave to wash thy feet! 
   Should all the streamlets cease to flow,
   Not one on earth could e’er be so. 
   Our strength propels the busy mills,
   And all the land with plenty fills,—­
   They bring, some silver—­others gold—­
   And shield the poor from winter’s cold. 
   The vapors, which from us ascend,
   To vegetation are a friend;—­
   In dew they soon descend again,
   Or fall in fruitful showers of rain. 
   Were there no brooks, there’d be no bread—­
   Then tell me, how could man be fed? 
   No man, nor beast, or plant, or flower,
   Without us could survive an hour;—­
   The feathered songsters of the grove. 
   Would cease to chant their notes of love. 
   Earth would become a scene of gloom—­
   One vast extended direful tomb.—­
   And I must tell thee, ere I go,
   That thy proud head would soon lie low,—­
   Thou ’dst fade and wither, droop and die,
   And in the dust neglected lie. 
   Yet still no praise belongs to me—­
   I do not sympathize with thee;
   I never can be proud and vain,
   And imitate thy boasting strain;
   But humbly on my way I’ll plod,
   For I receive my strength from God.”