Loch Leven's Gentle Stream.
I'VE gazed upon the rapid Rhine,

I've seen its waters foam and shine;
I've watched its cascades, wild and bright,
Leap proudly on, in rainbow light;
Its waves have charmed my dazzled eye,
Like molten silver clashing by:

Still, still, I could not love the Rhine;
The land it watered was not mine:
I sighed to see the moon's mild beam
Fall on Loch Leven's gentle stream!

I've wandered by the placid Rhone,
When night was on her starry throne;
I've looked upon the Tiber's tide,
And plucked the wild-flowers by its side;
I've heard the gondolier's wild note
O'er the Lagoon's fair waters float:
Still, still, I turned with willing feet,
My native North again to greet!
Again to see the moon's mild beam
Fall on Loch Leven's gentle stream!

[From The Thames.]

ELIZA COOK.

LET the Rhine be blue and bright,

In its path of liquid light,

Where the red grapes fling a beam
Of glory on the stream;

Let the gorgeous beauty there,
Mingle all that's rich and fair;
Yet to me it ne'er could be

Like that river great and free,

The Thames! the mighty Thames !

Though it bear no azure wave,

Though no pearly foam may lave,

Or leaping cascades pour

Their rainbows on its shore;
Yet I ever loved to dwell

Where I heard its gushing swell;

And never skimmed its breast,

But I warmly praised and blest

The Thames the mighty Thames !

E. COOK.

[From The Singer's Plea.]

THE ancient rivers, rivers of renown,

A royal largess to the sea roll down,

And on those liberal highways nations send Their tributes to the world,-stored corn and wine, Gold-dust, the wealth of pearls, and orient spar, And myrrh, and ivory, and cinnabar,

And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine. But in the woodlands, where the wild flowers are, The rivulets, they must have their innocent will Who all the summer hours are singing still,

I

The birds care for them, and sometimes a star, And should a tired child rest beside the stream Sweet memories would slide into his dream.

EDWARD DOWDEN.

[From Wise Passiveness.]

LIE as patient as yon wealthy stream,

Dreaming among green fields its summer dream, Which takes whate'er the gracious hours will bring

Into its quiet bosom.

E. DOWDEN.

To the River Clyde.

I.

SWEET stream! whose infancy is 'mong the hills ! In joy of youth o'er many a crag thou leapest.

Gladly thou drinkest of a hundred rills,

Till growing strong thy seaward tryst thou keepest:
'Mid farms and orchards is thy pleasant way,
Past wooded slopes, by pale and stately mansions :
Old bridges span thee, and old ruins gray
Are mirror'd in thy still and blue expansions:
Lovely thou art, but natural loveliness
May don a dress demure for deeds of duty :
Drudge of the city! can I love thee less
That thou art more for use and less for beauty?
A prouder beauty, my own Clyde is thine,
That labour links thee with the mighty brine!

II.

O MIGHTY Clyde! full-breasted like a sea!
Pure as at bubbling of thy grassy fountains!
Man may not subjugate what God makes free:
Thy plighted ocean-waves, thy glens, thy mountains,
Glow with the colours that our sea-king sires
Pausing beheld amid their tameless forays :
Unchanged the outline of thy rugged shires,
Thy purple slopes, gray headlands, rocky corries,
Sunshine and shattering storms: along thy marge
The far-arm'd city sprinkles rare adornings,
But Nature's features, unsubdued and large,
Keep their old pomp as in the primal mornings,
When first with thee I dreamt delirious dreams,
Thou peerless daughter of the clouds and streams!
JAMES HEDDERWICK.

[From The Hudson.]

"THERE flows a fair stream by the hills of the west,”

66

She sang to her boy as he lay on her breast;

'Along its smooth margin thy fathers have played;

Beside its deep waters their ashes are laid."

I wandered afar from the land of my birth,

I saw the old rivers, renowned upon earth,
But fancy still painted that wide-flowing stream
With the many-hued pencil of infancy's dream.

I saw the green banks of the castle-crowned Rhine,

Where the grapes drink the moonlight and change it to wine;

I stood by the Avon, whose waves as they glide

Still whisper his glory who sleeps at their side.

But my heart would still yearn for the sound of the waves
That sing as they flow by my forefathers' graves;

If manhood yet honours my cheek with a tear,
I care not who sees it,-no blush for it here!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

T

Little Streams.

LITTLE streams in light and shadow,

Flowing through the pasture meadow,

Flowing by the green way-side,

Through the forest dim and wide,

Through the hamlet still and small

By the cottage, by the hall,

By the ruin'd abbey still ;

Turning here and there a mill,
Bearing tribute to the river--

Little streams, I love you ever.

Summer music there is flowing-
Flowering plants in them are growing;
Happy life is in them all,

Creatures innocent and small ;

Little birds come down to drink,
Fearless of their leafy brink;