[Pg 34]

Where, draggled and drenched together,

The ox-eyes rank the rill,

To the old corn-mill.

The creek by now is swollen,

And its foaming cascades sound;

And the lilies, smeared with pollen,

In the dam look dull and drowned.

'Tis a path I oft have stolen

To the bridge that rambles round

With willows bound.

Through a valley wild with berry,

Packed thick with the iron-weeds,

And elder,—washed and very

Fragrant,—the fenced path leads;

Past oak and wilding cherry

To a place of flags and reeds,

That the water bredes.

The sun through the sad sky bleaches—

Is that a thrush that calls?

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