Life’s stream sweeps through many a vale
Of varied hues and smiles and tears—
And bowers that joy the breezy gale,
And desert wastes where grief appears.
It sweeps—aye swiftly to the sea,
Even as the gush of waters flowing;
A wave—a rush how merrily!
And then a chasm darkly showing.
Its source is in the little nook
Beside that far-off mountain,
Where young buds o’er its bosom look,
And violets kiss the fountain.
How pure it gurgling starts—and beaming
Bright in the first spring-morning’s sun,
Heaven’s own loved miniature seeming—
O thus is life begun!
And then it seeks another scene—
One gemmed with many flowers,
Where May-dews linger yet between
And in the leafy bowers:
And still it thrills most joyously,
Rippling o’er rock and glen—then sleeping
Beside the mead or on the lea;
But O, its dregs are creeping.
And still it meets another land;
But all its early flowers have faded,
Save here and there upon its strand,
One lingers by the storm abraded.
And now its lengthened depths are clouded
With misty volumes floating;
And in a wild of brambles shrouded,
O doth it cease its sporting. {760}
Yet one more vale it finds—the last
On life’s meandering shore—
Its yellow leaf twirls on the blast,
Its blossoms breathe no more:
And o’er its sullen, beamless tide,
Its bubbles all are breaking—
’Tis done—it meets the ocean wide,
Each balmy scene forsaking.
’Tis done—the ocean’s boundless waste
Rolls up its misty gleaming;
And on that desert shore is cast
The sea-wave darkly streaming.
But shall it be thus lost? No never—
A brighter impulse shall be given,
E’en from its ocean sleep—to sever
Its scintillings to Heaven.
_Elfin Moor, Va. 1836_.