A STREAM IN ARDEN. 
A STREAM IN ARDEN. 
T SING a stream in Arden. It might be 
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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,— 
Now 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, 
