THE HILLSIDE RIVULET a Poem
THE HILLSIDE RIVULET
AN Eden haunt, a charming fairy grot,
The angler's home in Nature's fairest spot!
Where peace, like some wing-wearied bird, drops down,
Folds her white pinions o'er her breast of brown.
The evening sky is fleck'd with gold,
As slow the setting sun declines;
The western cloud's transparent fold
With a surpassing radiance shines.
And as the deepening shadows sweep
Athwart the glimmering landscape's breast,
And o'er the purpled mountains creep,
The soft air, drowsy, sinks to rest.
How clear this brooklet in whose depths
The gold and silvery fishes glide !
So clear, I count the piuk-lmed shells
That pave the cool, transparent tide.
How gay the 'broidering flowers that fringe
Its edge with lines of varied tinge,
As if some Fairy's hand had sown
The place with jewels from her zone!
There shines a crystal shell to dip
The gelid waters to the lip;
Would that the Genius of the place
Might beam on me her radiant face!
A mimic waterfall pours out
Its clear libation in the cool
Granitic basin it hath madeó
A sparkling tribute to the pool.
A willow droops its leaves o'erhead,
Wild gorse and heather clothe its side,
Where ivies and brown lichens cling,
And fern and foxglove line the tide,
And grape-vines their light garlands fling.
The rivulet stops to kiss each flower,
Lily and moss, and bending grass,
Touching each one with soft caress,
Ere forth forever it shall pass.
'Tis here the musing angler comes
To choose his flies and cast his line,
Casting where dark the shadows rest,
Casting where rippling eddies shine.
McLellan, Isaac. Poems of the Rod and Gun. New York: Henry Thorpe, 1886.
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