To watch where the Father of Waters' waves sleep.
How mildly they laugh as they haste!
Now they near the spot where they will spring,
Lightly clearing the distance to the pebbles below,
Where, tired with the effort, more calmly they flow,
While the glistening spray, and the foam white as snow,
Their light o'er the rocks and the dancing waves fling.
At evening how often will come
The wild deer to drink and to rest;
Till frightened away by the nighthawk's loud scream,