WE walk'd by the side
Of the tranquil stream,
That the sun had tinged
With his parting beam;
The water was still,
And so crystal clear,
That every spray
Had its image there.

And every reed
That o'er it bow'd,
And the crimson streak,
And the silvery cloud,
And all that was bright,
And all that was fair,
And all that was gay,
Was reflected there.

And they said it was like
To the chasten'd breast,
That religion soothes
To a holy rest;
When sorrow has tam'd
The impassion'd eye,
And the bosom reflects
Its expected sky.

But I took a stone
That lay beside,
And I cast it far
On the glassy tide;
And gone was the charm
Of the pictur'd scene,
And the sky so bright,
And the landscape green.

And I bade them mark
How an idle word,
Too lightly said,
And too deeply heard,
Or a harsh reproof,
Or a look unkind,
May spoil the peace
Of the heavenly mind.

Though sweet be the peace,
And holy the calm,
And the heavenly beam
Be bright and warm;
The heart that it gilds
Is all as weak
As the wave that reflects
The crimson streak.

You cannot impede
The celestial ray,
That lights the dawn
Of eternal day;
But so may you trouble
The bosom it cheers,
'Twill cease to be true
To the image it bears.