Brood o’er the little river’s source,
Where, in a pool of blue-green lustre,
The water bubbles from the sand,
And pine-trees in a solemn cluster
Like sentinels around it stand.
And thence, through level champaign gliding,
Past cottages with russet tiles,
Past marsh and mead the stream goes sliding
For half-a-dozen tranquil miles,
Till, with its waters still untainted