A STREAM IN ARDEX. 51 



A STREAM IN ARDEN. 



I SING a stream in Arden. It might be 



The selfsame stream, to which our Shakespeare led 



His melancholy Jacques, and eased his soul 



With contemplation, for the feathery boughs 



Of immemorial trees droop o'er its course, 



And shed their pensive shadows on its sward. 



On moorland levels, 'mongst the purple heather 

 And golden gorse, my brooklet hath its birth. 

 It bubbles into life and song together 

 Crows, purls, and prattles to its reeds and ferns, 

 Then gambols down the vale, and frisks along, 

 Full of fair changes and fine fantasies, 

 And pretty breaks of temper, now a pool, 

 Clear, calm, a mirror for the clouds and stars, 

 Now a sharp shallow, rattling o'er the rocks. 

 Xow fairy cascades, passion-white with foam, 

 And now a stream, careering, strong and steady, 

 As with a foretaste of the open seas. 



The pastures love my brook, and press it close. 



