  Fresh from the mountain snow, And the cold blue glacier-field, Leaping and dancing the waters flow; Long have they been frost-fettered and sealed, And freed at last they are fain to go, And find what riches the world may yield Far in the plains below. First by its gray ice-walls Moaning the torrent swirled, And now 'tis a cataract sheer that falls Over the rocks by its rush down-hurled, And foaming in tumult of thunder, calls To the dumb stark pines; and shattered and whirled They bow their heads as its thralls. Ah! but ye little wot, Waters so strong and free, That the fuller life that ye seek is not Like to the dreams that your young hopes see: Liberty soon, too soon, may be got, But stained and troubled your course shall be,— 'Tis life's common lot. |
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