No more a little moorland thread,
Deeper and wider prows my bed:
J name a dell, ’m dubbed a brook,
Thave a place 12 map and book.

As ever on,and on I flow,

The dark hills fade, my banks are low;
And miles away, on either side,

Stretch the green meadows flat and wide.

Now, black with many a mill and drain,
I would I were a child again,

And might to my old home return,
Among the mosses and the fern.

Vain such regrets—it may not be;
I must flow onward to the sea,
And find, in his tumultnous brine,
A purity no longer mine.

My race complete, I shall arise,

And float a cioud-wreath in the skies 3
Then melt in dew, or rushing rain,
And be a mountain rill again.

G. 8. 0.