For ferns, and flowers, and mosses rare;
And time hath been. I ween,
When this sweet, mountain stream
Hath paused to start, with whirring sound
The wheel of yon old mill
Now pulseless grown, and still
THE sweet brook-song was scarcely o'er,
When on our ears fell murmuring sounds
Of life upon another shore;
On speeds our bark with quickening bounds