How oft along the woodland way,
Fair streamlet of the hills,
We've listen'd to the murm'ring voice
Of all the gushing rills,

We saw the verdure on the brink,
The grass, the ferns, the flow'rs,
We heard the song of happy birds,
That sported in thy bow'rs;

And when thy constant ripple show'd
In morn or evening bright,
The glory of the rising sun,
Or moon's serener light,

We prayed that Love on us might beam,
With radiance as divine,
And that the lustre of our lives
Might come from Heav'n, like thine.