The silent river, with majestic sweep,
Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy face
Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan
To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing.
Talk ye of solitude? It is not here.
Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad.
Those towering hills hold converse with the sky
That smiles upon their summits; and the wind
Which stirs their wooded sides whispers of life,
And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf,