First by that spring to stand?
A thousand streams of lovelier flow
Bathed his own mountain-land!
Whence, far o’er waste and ocean track,
Their wild, sweet voices, call’d him back.
They call’d him back to many a glade,
His childhood’s haunt of play,
Where brightly through the beechen shade
Their waters glanced away;
They call’d him, with their sounding waves,