RILL.
“Downward, downward, little maiden,
Is a voice that bids me speed,
Where a little brook is waiting,
Which my limpid drops must feed.
I am one of many others,
And when Spring’s first hours awake,
Into life and motion springing,
To the plains our course we take.”
CHILD.
“Rain-drops, which so fast are falling,
Patter, patter, on the ground,
Much I love to stand and watch you,
Much I love your merry sound;
But I pray you stop and tell me,
On what mission you are bound?”
RAIN.
“Humble as our mission seemeth,
Maiden, to your thoughtful eye,
Yet for good, by God’s appointment,
Drop by drop, I fall from high;
And, without me, mightiest rivers
Soon would leave their channels dry.”
Musing, then, the little maiden,
Inward for a moral turned,
Where, to light the spirit temple,
Truth upon her altar burned.
“Rain,” she said, “from heaven descending,
Feeds the little fountain rill:
Onward, onward, all are hastening,
Never for a moment still.
Rill, and brook, and mighty river,
All to the deep ocean go;
All the thirsty river swallows,—
Yet it doth not overflow.”
Child, thou seekest from this a moral,
Ask of Truth, and thou shalt know.
