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Gently running made sweet music with the enameled stones and seemed to give a gentle kiss to every sedge he overtook in his watery pilgrimage.

A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done, Talk of to-morrow's cowslips as they run. - Ebenezer Elliott ,

From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.

Thou hastenest down between the hills to meet me at the road, The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height, Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with light.

See, how the stream has overflowed Its banks, and o'er the meadow road Is spreading far and wide!

The music of the brook silenced all conversation.

I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still.

The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th' enameled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge, He overtaketh in his pilgrimage. And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean. Then let me go and hinder not my course. I'll be as patient as a gentle stream And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

Brook! whose society the poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew; And whom the curious painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks.