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The Brook and the Wave

The brooklet came from the mountain,

As sang the bard of old,

Running with feet of silver

Over the sands of gold!

Far away in the briny ocean

There rolled a turbulent wave,

Now singing along the sea-beach,

Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow,

Though they flowed so far apart,

And has filled with its freshness and sweetness

That turbulent, bitter heart!

Parker Cleaveland

Among the many lives that I have known,

 None I remember more serene and sweet,

 More rounded in itself and more complete,

 Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.

These pines, that murmur in low monotone,

 These walks frequented by scholastic feet,

 Were all his world; but in this calm retreat

 For him the Teacher's chair became a throne.

With fond affection memory loves to dwell

 On the old days, when his example made

 A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen;

And now, amid the groves he loved so well

That naught could lure him from their grateful shade,

He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen!

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.