Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . 21 XXII. II. THE STEPPING-STONES. Still broadning on with every rood. None may the brook oerleap,Even when innocent of flood Its summer shallows sleep. Answring the whispers of the beechWith whispered ripple-tones, From wavelets that scarce mid-way reachThe sun-warmed stepping-stones. Too shallow, if it willed, to drown,The babes that cross its play ; Too clear to hide one pebble strowniUong its harmless way. Ah, youth of man, and youth of stream ! Who dreams, while smooth and clearThe summer-shallowed waters gleam, rIhe winter spate so near ? Wh
Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . 21 XXII. II. THE STEPPING-STONES. Still broadning on with every rood. None may the brook oerleap,Even when innocent of flood Its summer shallows sleep. Answring the whispers of the beechWith whispered ripple-tones, From wavelets that scarce mid-way reachThe sun-warmed stepping-stones. Too shallow, if it willed, to drown,The babes that cross its play ; Too clear to hide one pebble strowniUong its harmless way. Ah, youth of man, and youth of stream ! Who dreams, while smooth and clearThe summer-shallowed waters gleam, rIhe winter spate so near ? When every rounded stepping-stoneWhere babies fearless stood, To fierce desire a barrier grown,Serves but to chafe the XXIII. III. THE LOCK. And now a river, charged with freight, And glassing in its flood,Town, tower, and bridge, and willowy ait Where the swan rears her brood, And towing-paths that passage ope On either reedy marge,And teams that strain against the rope Of the low-laden barge. Till the broad lasher bars the stream, Set thick with eel-pots brown,Where the white waters chafe and ream,And fling them frantic down. That drawn off sideways, smooth and still, The pent-up flood may goTo where the lock doth fall and fill, AVith gate-checked ebb and flow. Like subtle counsel, that supplies A safe and side-long way,To round whatever barriers rise Across the forth-right way. < 23 XXIV. IV. THE MILL. Since to a stream the rillets ran, The streams to river grew,Vilest or noblest work of man, The waters set to do. Till smirched with labour-stains impure, To scape the town tis fain,And between flower-fringed banks secure, Huns itself clear again. But at its purest never proud, Tis glad to labour
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