The Brooklet.

THOU silver brooklet, bright and clear,

That hasten'st ever swiftly here,

Whence com'st, where goest thou? I think,

While standing on thy verdant brink.

I come from lonely forest glade,

In primrose paths my course has strayed,

My surface floating shadows dye

In pictures of the azure sky.

I own sweet childhood's want of care,

It drives me on, I know not where;

The Author of my silver tide,

In him I trust, he is my guide.

A. L. H.