THE brook must seek the river,
And the river seek the sea;
The mountain peak must wildly shriek,
As the wind howls mournfully.
The birds must turn their flight
When the leaves have strewn the ground;
The buds must creep from winter sleep,
When they hear the May-wind's sound.
The love-prone heart must throb
When a beauty's face is seen:
For small and great are led by fate -
So I to thee, my queen!
M.
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Lectures on English Novelists.