A bright stream may shrink in summer's hot fire,
Flowers on her margin may droop and expire;
Her channel be dry, her soft gushing tone,
The voice of the stream be silent and gone.
Lost nymph of the stream, we find thee again;
Clouds from their treasures have pour'd out the rain;
Thy channel is full, thou glidest along,
Flowers on thy margin and mirth in thy song.
Brightly and swiftly, with laughter and song,
The life-stream of youth runs sparkling along;
Oft on the margin, enamelled with flowers,
Youth in wild pleasure is wasting the hours.
Fierce fires of passion are scorching his veins,
The bright stream hath shrunk 'neath horrors and pains;
God speaks in thunder-the rain-torrent pours-
The life-stream again runs fresh 'mong the flowers.