William Henry Cuyler Hosmer (1814–1877)

A BROOK, the woody mountain’s bounding child,

With a deep murmur in its silvery flow,

Falls, in its journey over rocks up-piled,

On the green carpet of the glen below.

Above the cascade aged hemlocks throw

Their mossy branches, flecked with drops of spray,

Like warders old, that watch around bestow,

Stationed on rocky battlements of gray.

In haunts like these, when baffled in the fight

That drenched a groaning land with crimson showers,

The sturdy champions of the true and right

Have gathered to repair their wasted powers,

And rousing hymns of God and freedom heard,

Sung by the tumbling wave and tameless bird!