The wavelets of the river laugh and dance,
As in their arms the mirrored sunbeams glance;
And with their smiles of winning, child-like grace,
They woo the rock, and murmur in his face:

"O Aged-One, why art thou never glad?
The lines that seam thy countenance are sad.
The world is ever changing; thou alone
Art still the same with thy dark face of stone.

"Free children of the mountains ever free,
We bring rich gifts of jewels unto thee;
Scent thee with perfumes of the mountain rose--
Heaven's daughter fair, that on our margin grows.

"Sweet strains of gentle melody we breathe,
And call the fishes from our depths beneath;
And gilded with the spring-tide's golden rays,
We make thee on our merry revels gaze.

The wavelets hasten, moving to and fro,
The rock still sorrows o’er his ancient woe;
The wavelets play, and laughing onward press--
The rock remains, gloomy and motionless.