Classic Poem

See, how the clear, unsullied streamlet strays
Along the windings of the blossomed vale,
And o'er the gentle slope
Dashes its crystal flood:

With soothing sweetness slowly tinkles on,
Rippling around the verdant, mossy stone,
Or in the unruffled pool
A pearly mirror shows:

Now murmurs softly o'er its gravelly bed,
Now silent curls along a sandy shoal,
And now beneath a root
Its lucid current hides.

Emerging thence, it scarcely steals along,
Where bubbles tinged with rainbows lightly glide,
And, dancing on the wave,
Are broken by the gale.

Now, standing in a pool, the whispering breeze
Uprears the water, pure as new-fallen snow,
And throws it wildly round
In every lovely form.

It flows thus sweetly through the silent vale,
In youthful gentleness, until, increased
By rills and cool, clear springs,
It swells into a brook.

Louder the murmur rises on the gale,
And dashed along the rudely broken steep,
O'ertopped with whitest foam,
The billows tumble on.

Now sunk to peace, the unambitious stream
Floats in broad current o'er the smiling mead,
Reflecting as a glass
The lily's snowy bloom.

Again it darts with loud increasing roar
Along the rapid, pouring o'er the rocks,
And swelling on the breeze,
That waves the boughs above.

At last it plunges in a dark abyss,
And throws amid the cliffs, that rise around,
The gayly colored spray,
As sets the evening sun.

'T is lost,—for in a hoarse-resounding cave,
Retiring from the ken of mortal eye,
It hides its manly flood
Within the mountain's womb.

Thus the bright youth, whom genius raises high
Above the ignoble throng that grovel round,
Passes his boyish days
In playful innocence.

To him, the mellow flute's melodious lay,
The fair one's sweetly uttered song of love,
Are charming as the strains
That heavenly angels sing.

To him the cool, retired grotto's still
And gloomy solitude is sweeter far
Than all the pomp of wealth,
Than all the glare of pride.

Unnoticed and unknown he tunes his lyre,
And weaves the lovely hymn of melody,
Unheard but by the grove,
That shields him from the sun.

But when his genius forms the manly song,
And from his lips the patriot accents breathe,
He seeks the mountain's brow,
And dwells amid the storm.

Thus fair he rises, like the towering pine
That on Monadnock courts the cloudless sky,
And fondly hopes to gain
The highest seat of fame.

But stranger to the baser arts of life,
By disappointment sunk into the grave,
And crushed by power and pride,
He slumbers in the dust.