LOIANO.

A VILLAGE ON THE SUMMIT OF AN APPENINE,

NEAR THE BATHS OF LUCCA.

HO!

EVERY ONE THAT THIRSTETH, COME YE TO THE WATERS.
ISAIAH LV. 1.

HIGH on the mountain's crown,

While all around is swathed in deepest brown,
Say, whence yon silvery gleam,

Reflecting bright the sun's departing beam?
There man hath sought his rest,

Within the eagle's nest,

Sick of the city's noise, and pomp, and powerContent, with daily toil,

To court the barren soil,

And bid afar the world's supremest dower,
How, from the etherial height,

Dwindle the mightiest works of human might!

And as his glance surveys,

Yon lines of trodden ways,

He, fain, unmindful of the law of love,
Forgets, as pass the pigmy crowd before his face,
That he himself is nought above

A brother of the race!

Far as the eye can see

Beneath him stretch the lordly Appenines,
Belted with cypress, garlanded with vines,
Rearing their backs in wooded majesty.

There may he raise his shrine-his God adore,
Conning His works of might down to the Mid-sea's shore.

But little thought hath man

Of Nature's glories, while his cheek is wan
With pinching want and care-

His eye to heav'n upturned in bootless prayer!
The nightly dews that lie

So rich around, his thirst may not supply,
Nor earth reveal her founts to glad his clouded eye.
For many and many an age,

The maidens sped their weary pilgrimage,

With toilsome steps and slow

Their brazen vessels on their shoulders slung

Down to the vale below,

O'er whose rich crops the wooded mountain hung.

There, in a mossy cave,

'Mid groves of chesnut on the hill's broad side,
Their burning brows they lave,

Where gushed a fount, whose waters never died.
So sweet the lowly spot-so hid from day-
Like a swallow's nest it lay!

With unremitting toil

They bear the stream, more choice than wine or oil, Till, having won the height, they pour around And cool the thirsty tongue, and glad the parched ground.

Lo! from the covert green,

With weary steps they came, the groves between,
Thro' narrow paths, that wound

To ease the toil of the precipitous ground.
Gladly their footsteps clung

To the gnarled roots, that o'er their pathway sprung.
Cedars and chesnuts gazed,

As up they wrought-at their hard lot amazed,
While they their stores await,

Drawing their moisture fresh from heav'n's gate;
Then poured it forth in tears,

To see poor man thus slaving all his years;
And to the toilsome band their shadows lent,
And stretched their brawny arms to smoothe the
steep ascent.

No more the rugged way

Compels the strength and burden of the day.
From the extremest isle,

Where yon bright sun now rests his parting smile,
Two strangers hither sought

The health these wooded hills have ever brought;
They marked the toilsome steep—

They marked the maidens wend their way, and weep;
Then strove to raise,

The gushing stream, and the responsive praise.
They pierced the mountain's crown,

A fount besought-then poured the blessing down,
And bade the thirsty hail, their hearths beside,
The never-ceasing spring surcharge its golden tide!

Joy lights the clouded eye,

As now, beneath the hot and sweltering sky,
The maidens trip to draw the cooling stream-
And as the sun-rays gleam

On the full current, rushing from its cave-
Their brazen vessels bubbling with the wave—
They scarce can deem their hands the prize attain
Without a moment's pain.

And as adown the steep, steep side they gaze,
And mark the toilsome ways,

That ope'd the mossy well-head on the sight,

Whence toiled they up the height,

To scatter life and light,

They raise the hand, and bless the flowing tide, And those, their stranger-guests, who thus their want supplied.

Blest were the hands, that bade the waters flow,
Life to preserve, and jocund health bestow !

Yet dead yon living wave,

It hath no power to save!

The lip may quaff-man's sense awhile immerst
In the full flow, and still the soul be curst
With an undying thirst,

That will not yield, tho' o'er the mountain's side, Founts of the depths beneath burst forth-a boundless

tide.

Who of this drinks must thirst again, and die;
For what of earth can the soul's wants supply?
Then far more blest, to whom the work is given
To ope the wells of heav'n,

And point the eye to the immortal Fount
In Zion's hallowed mount-

Water of life-free gift of Christ to all,
Who simply on Him call!

O seek then for the living wave,

This this alone hath power the life to save !