XVII.

Hast thou not seen a clear and sparkling rill, Upon whose ripplings joyous sunbeams quiver, Flow swift, yet tranquil, from its native hill Straight to the bosom of some mighty river,-- Its separate existence lost for ever, Its name, its nature, sunk in the devotion Of that great confluence? Calm as to the Giver, Her life she gave, nor struggle nor commotion Showed where that streamlet flowed, for ever mixed with Ocean.