It went: its carol was a joyous sound,
Making the silent woods responsive ring,
And the far forest-echoes, sighing, sing.
And now I stood upon the mountain's height—
Like a wide map, the landscape lay unrolled—
There could I trace that rivulet's path of light,
From the steep mountain to the sea of gold;
Now leaping o'er the rocks like chamois bold,—
Now like a crouching hare concealed from sight,—
Now hid beneath the willow's bowering fold,