To find employment for my pen,
   I wandered from the haunts of men,
   And sought a little rising ground,
   With lofty oaks and elm trees crowned,
   Where I might court the friendly muse,
   Who ever thinks herself abused
   When woo’d ’midst tumult, noise and strife,
   And all the busy cares of life. 
   With senses quite absorbed in thought,
   While all beside seemed half forgot,
   I wandered on till I had strayed
   Beneath an oak tree’s ample shade,
   Whose lofty top towered up so high,
   It seemed aspiring for the sky. 
   Just at the basement of the hill,
   A modest little purling rill
   Shone like a mirror in the sun,—­
   Flashing and sparkling as it run. 
   The lofty oak scarce deigned to look
   Upon the little murm’ring brook,
   But tossed his head in proud disdain,
   And thus began his boasting strain:—­
   “I’ve lived almost since time began,
   The friend and favorite of man;
   Since I became a stately tree,
   Cradled within my branches, lay
   The young pappoose, who gayly smiled,
   And listened to the music wild
   That floated round his tiny head,
   While through my top the breezes played. 
   In after years to me he came,
   When wearied in pursuit of game;
   He from my branches plucked his bow,
   To slay the deer and buffalo;
   Here, with his friends, he’d often meet
   To sing the war-song, dance, and eat. 
   ’Twas here he woo’d the dark-eyed maid,
   And built his wigwam in my shade;
   To me he brought his youthful bride,
   And dwelt here till with age he died. 
   His children thought no place more meet
   To make his grave than at my feet;
   They said ’twould greatly soothe their woes
   If I would let him here repose;
   Then begged that I would deign to wave
   My verdant branches o’er his grave. 
   And since the polished white man came,
   He’s loved and honored me the same;
   Though all the neighboring trees around
   Were slain, as cumberers of the ground,
   Yet here I tower in grandeur still,—­
   The pride and glory of the hill. 
   My dauntless spirits never quail
   At earthquakes, hurricanes, or hail;
   The rolling thunder’s fiery car
   Has never dared my form to mar;
   I’ve heard its rumbling undismayed,
   While forked lightnings round me played;
   But O, thou little murm’ring brook,
   How mean and meager is thy look;—­
   Babbling, babbling, all day long,—­
   How I detest thy simple song. 
   I would not have thee in my sight,
   Did not all nobles claim a right
   To keep some menial servant near,
   And therefore ’tis that thou art here. 
   As I am always very neat. 
   I’ll deign to let thee wash my feet;—­
   Such work becomes one in thy place,—­
   To drudge for me is no disgrace.” 
   The spirit of the brook was stirred,