When but a fount the morning found thee?
Born when the skies began to glow,
Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalk to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.
Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,
Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,
Its rushing current from the swiftest.
Ah! what wild haste—and all to be