Classic Poem

O purling waters from yon mountain woods,
Wind through the meadow on these summer days,
Curve, and re-curve, in seeming senseless maze
That few may understand,
But when rude March shall bring the rushing floods
Thy bends shall block the tide
Of devastation wide,
And save the fertile land:
Curve, silver stream and save the meadow land!

Here oft a maiden comes at eventide
To call the cattle from the pasture deep:
If one should 'neath her modest wimple peep, —
If one should touch her hand,
Let down the bars, and linger by her side,
Would such things do her wrong?
O curve, and wind along,
And carol o'er the sand, —
Wind, happy stream, and save her father's land!

We stroll along the margin in a dream, —
Was ever farmer's daughter half so fair?
And in the twilight of the lilied wier
We loiter, hand-in-hand.
O straighten not the windings, dreamful stream,
For I should then have less
Of her shy loveliness:
Wind on o'er pebbly sand, —
Bend, lyric stream, and save her father's land!

Her grizzled parent stroked his beard and said, —
" Meadow and cottage shall be hers in Spring, — "
For April blooms shall bear a marriage ring
For some one's pretty hand!
O winding stream remember when we're wed,
Sing ever 'round her feet,
And keep her pure and sweet,
As is thy golden sand;
Wind, darling stream, and save her bridal land!