Streamlet’s morning son, hiz
Whissell stops, and creeps this
Olden darkey, with muffled tread,
Still nearer, where swiftly runs
The pearly waters, to hide
Beneath the shelvy bank.
The friendly willo, tho yung with leaves,
Between the early sun and dansing
Waters, spreads a quivring shade,
Cluss thare old Ishmahel stands.