And disappointment still delayed to warn—
With fond regret, I still pursued the theme—
With clambering step still up the steep was borne,
Too sad to smile, too pleased perchance to mourn.
And now I stood beside that rivulet's spring,
That came unbidden with a bubbling bound—
And stealing forth, a gentle trembling thing,
It seemed an infant fearing all around—
Yet clinging to its mother's breast—the ground.
But soon it bolder grew, and with a wing