Thomas Doubleday (1790–1870)

COME, track with me this little vagrant rill,

Wandering its wild course from the mountain’s breast;

Now with a brink fantastic, heather-drest,

And playing with the stooping flowers at will;

Now moving scarce, with noiseless step and still:

Anon, it seems to weary of its rest,

And hurries on, leaping with sparkling zest

Adown the ledges of the broken hill.

So let us live. Is not the life well-spent

Which loves the lot that kindly Nature weaves

For all inheriting or adorning Earth?

Which throws light pleasure over true content,

Blossoms with fruitage, flowers as well as leaves,

And sweetens wisdom with a taste of mirth.