Classic Poem

COLLIN'S ISLE

There is a little rippling stream
By Renfrew's sunny side;
Such as we see in a tranquil dream,
When our fancies fondly glide, —
And in the midst is a little Isle,
Well clothed with stately trees, —
Which wave their heads, o'er the peaceful soil,
Amid the aquatic breeze.

In days of old two strangers came,
Their barque, a float of wood;
And they sheltered in this little stream,
From the blast, which then was rude. —
They moored their leaky vessel there,
In that haven so safe and still,
And went for repose in the nearest cot
To that little rippling rill.

But, ah! the night was dark and drear,
And they were strangers there;
And not a hovel found they near.
Its banks were then so bare.
So they travelled on, but alas — alas!
They lost — they lost their way,
And ne'er returned to their leaky barque,
For in Death's cold arms they lay.

This raft a sacred thing was thought,
And each one, as he passed it by,
Threw a mournful glance, o'er its lifeless deck,
From a sympathetic eye.
When the tempest ceased, the tide decreased
And it rested on the ground;
And gathered the sand, from the drifted strand,
Which the current threw gently round.

Soon round its sides a bank was seen,
Increasing as time rolled on,
Till it spread o'er the top of its lowly mein,
And covered its face anon.
And now obscure, like the two strange men,
It lay hid from the gazer's eye; —
And all thought it a grave, in the midst of the wave,
Where they both slept quietly.

But this raft, at length, began to bud,
And juicy sprouts grew there;
And now 'tis a verdant little wood,
With its branches high in air.
I cannot pass that lovely spot,
But I feel a sudden charm;
And whilst I bewail the mournful tale,
My heart grows doubly warm.