In a sweet little glen,
Far from footsteps of men,
Once a bright-featured Brooklet was born,
It could boast of its birth
From a hole in the earth
Well protected by bramble and thorn.
For a time 'twas content,
Nor on wandering bent,
Till the raindrops fell plenteous and free,
And disturbed the sweet rest
Of the rivulet's breast,
By whispering tales of the sea.
What the rain had to tell
Made the rivulet swell,
And grow large and more large by degrees,
Till it broke with a bound
From the hole in the ground,
And was lost in a forest of trees.
But it found its way out,
And meandered about
O'er the meadow, the lowland, and lea,
Till it came, full of pride,
With a thousand beside,
And emptied itself in the sea.
But alas for the stream!
And alas for its dream
Of ambition! such dreamings were o'er,
When it found to its cost
As a stream it was lost
The moment it leapt from the shore.
So like rivulets--men,
Humbly born in life's glen,
Proudly dream as the lowlands they lave,
That they're each one a sea,
Whilst they're only--ah, me!
Of life's ocean at best but a wave.