Fair stream, embosomed in yon pleasant vale,
That in thy quiet beauty sweep'st along!
How oft I skimmed thee with my slender sail,
How oft I poured upon thy banks my song!
'Twas then I marked the autumn's blushing leaves
Sink, wafted slowly in the quiet air;
Thy silver wave the roseate gift receives,
And hastes its treasure to the deep to bear.
So man shall pass, borne on the stream of time,
A moment seen, and seen, alas, no more.
Dark is the wave; and distant is the clime;
But lift, in strength divine, the struggling oar;
And then, thou wanderer of life's troubled sea,
Nor angry storm, nor rocks, nor wave, shall injure thee.
— American Cottage Life (1850) XXX.
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