A

[From The Lotus-Eaters.]

LAND of streams! some, like a downward smoke Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.

LORD TENNYSON.

[From The Lotus-Eaters.]

BENEATH a heaven dark and holy,

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly

His waters from the purple hill. . . .

To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

LORD TENNYSON.

[From Sonnet.]

THROUGH yonder poplar valley

Below the blue-green river windeth slowly;

But in the middle of the sombre valley

The crispèd waters whisper musically.

LORD TENNYSON.

To the Thames.

RIVER, whose charge is from the winds and sky

The Imperial City's agitated ear

To soothe with murmur low and ceaseless cheer,
Do thy great, pious task perpetually :

But add a warning voice more deep and high :

Borne down from bridge to bridge in smooth career, Tell her to whom the pomp of gold is dear,

Of Tyre that fell; of Fortune's perfidy!

Tell her, whilst on thy broad and glimmering mirror
The shadows of her turrets tremble and slide,
How brief the impress of victorious Pride,
How nearly Triumph is allied to Terror.
Demons their nests in ship-mast forests hide-
By nobleness, not gold, are Nations deified.

AUBREY DE VERE.

The Stars in the River.

'HE mirrored stars lit all the bulrush spears,

THE

And all the flags and broad-leaved lily-isles; The ripples shook the stars to golden smiles, Then smoothed them back to happy golden spheres. We rowed-we sang; her voice seemed, in mine ears, An angel's, yet with woman's dearest wiles; But shadows fell from gathering cloudy piles,

And ripples shook the stars to fiery tears.

God shaped the shadows like a phantom boat Where sate her soul and mine in Doom's attire ; Along the lily isles I saw it float

Where ripples shook the stars to symbols dire; We wept-we kissed, while starry fingers wrote, And ripples shook the stars to a snake of fire.

THEODORE WATTS.

[From The Auspicious Day.]

Water Nymph's Song.

MILES and miles of here and there

Our eager river forced its way,

Bent to be it knew not where.

It had no rest in delay;

And for its haste it had no aim;
Wherefore go? But wherefore stay?

Here and there led both the same;
By any winding it could make
Near its secret goal it came.

When it reached the crystal lake

It knew its aim and found its rest;
All the miles were for love's sake.

'Mid the blue hills of the west,
Our river lies in the lake's breast.

AUGUSTA Webster.

The Brook Rhine.

MALL current of the wilds afar from men,

SMALL

Changing and sudden as a baby's mood;
Now a green babbling rivulet in the wood,
Now loitering broad and shallow through the glen,
Or threading 'mid the naked shoals, and then

Brattling against the stones, half mist, half flood, Between the mountains where the storm-clouds brood; And each change but to wake or sleep again;

Pass on, young stream, the world has need of thee; Far hence a mighty river on its breast

Bears the deep-laden vessels to the sea;

Far hence wide waters feed the vines and corn.
Pass on, small stream, to so great purpose born,
On to the distant toil, the distant rest.

The Frozen River.

A. WEBSTER.

DEAD stream beneath the icy silent blocks

That motionless stand soddening into grime, Thy fretted falls hang numb, frost pens the locks; Dead river, when shall be thy waking time?

"Not dead;" the river spoke and answered me,

'My burdened current, hidden, finds the sea."

"Not dead, not dead;" my heart replied at length, "The frozen river holds a hidden strength."

A. WEBSTER.

[From Our River.]

The Merrimack.

We know the world is rich with streams

Renowned in song and story,

Whose music murmurs through our dreams
Of human love and glory :

We know that Arno's banks are fair,
And Rhine has castled shadows,
And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr
Go singing down their meadows.

But while, unpictured and unsung
By painter or by poet,

Our river waits the tuneful tongue

And cunning hand to show it,— We only know the fond skies lean Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine Awakes to our caressing.

No fickle sun-god holds the flocks
That graze its shores in keeping;

No icy kiss of Dion mocks

The youth beside it sleeping: Our Christian river loveth most

The beautiful and human;

The heathen streams of Naiads boast,
But ours of man and woman.