From the cool fountains of the wood,
A rivulet of the valley came,
And glided on for many a rood,
Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame.

The air was calm and soft and sweet,
The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay,
And wet with dew-drops, at my feet,
Bloomed the young violets of May.

No sound of busy life was heard,
Amid those pastures lone and still,
Save the faint chrip of early bird,
Or bleat of flocks along the hill.

I traced that rivulet's winding way;
New scenes of beauty opened round,
Where meads of brighter verdure lay
And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground.

“Ah! happy valley stream,” I said,
“Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers,
Whose fragrance round thy path is shed
Through all the joyous summer hours.

“Oh! could my years, like thine be passed
In some remote and silent glen,
Where I could dwell and sleep at last,
Far from the bustling haunts of men.”

But what new echoes greet my ear!
The village schoolboys' merry call;
And mid the village hum I hear
The murmur of the waterfall.

I looked; the widening vale betrayed
A pool that shone like burnished steel,
Where that bright valley stream was stayed,
To turn the miller's ponderous wheel.

Ah! why should I, I thought with shame,
Sigh for a life of solitude,
When even this stream, without a name,
Is laboring for the common good?

No! never let me shun my part,
Amid the busy scenes of life,
But, with a warm and generous heart,
Press onward in the glorious strife.

Wherever human wrong is felt,
Where'er oppression, want or woe,
There should the heart with pity melt,
And willing hands find work to do.