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158

THE GROTTO OF EGERIA.

And thoughts that lift themselves, triumphingly,
O'er time, where time has triumphed over art;
As wild-flowers climb its ruins, haunt it still,
While still, above the consecrated spot,
Lifts up its prophet voice the ancient rill,
And flings its oracles along the grot.

But where is she, the lady of the stream,
And he, whose worship was, and is a dream?
Silent, yet full of voices; desolate,

Yet filled with memories, like a broken heart.
Oh! for a vision like to his who sate

With thee, and with the moon and stars, apart,
By the cool fountain, many a livelong even,
That speaks unheeded to the desert now,

When vanished clouds had left the air all heaven,
And all was silent, save the stream and thou,
Egeria-solemn thought upon his brows,
For all his diadem,-thy spirit-eyes,

His only homage, and the flitting boughs
And birds, alone, between him and the skies.
Each outward sense expanded to a soul,

And every feeling tuned into a truth,

And all the bosom's shattered strings made whole,
And all its worn-out powers retouched with youth,
Beneath thy spell, that chastened while it charmed;
Thy words, that touched the spirit while they taught ;
Thy look, that uttered wisdom while it warmed,
And moulded fancy in the stamp of thought,
And breathed an atmosphere below, above,

Light to the soul, and to the senses, love.

THE FOUNTAIN'S DEPTHS.

Beautiful dreams, that haunt the younger earth,
In poet's pencil, or in minstrel's song,
Like sighs, or rainbows, dying in their birth,
Perceived a moment, and remembered long!
Oh, no! bright visions, fables of the heart!
Not to the past alone do ye belong;
Types for all ages, wove when early art
To feeling gave a voice, to truth a tongue!
Oh, what if gods have left the Grecian mount,
And shrines are voiceless on the classic shore,
And lone Egeria by the gushing fount
Waits for her monarch-lover never more.

Who hath not his Egeria?-some sweet thought,
Shrouded and shrined within his heart of hearts,
More closely cherished, and more fondly sought,
Still, as the daylight of the soul departs;
The visioned lady of the spring, that wells
In the green valley of his brighter years,

Or gentle spirit that for ever dwells,

And sings of hope, beside the fount of tears!

HERVEY.

THE FOUNTAIN'S DEPTHS.

HE fountain's depths were dim and chill,
Though summer smiled upon the plain,

Though gaily sang the tinkling rill,

And softly chimed the distant main ;

The blossoms, springing by its side, Sheds down their hues upon its wave,

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THE FOUNTAIN'S DEPTHS.

Yet still its ever-gushing tide

Was calm and voiceless as the grave.

The autumn wind went whistling by,
Whirling the dead leaves far and wide,
Yet still no voice of sympathy

From those untroubled depths replied;
The upper waters might be stirred,

And the fringed grass and thrushes thrill,
But from its heart no sound was heard,

Its source was all serene and still.

But when there came a quiet night,

And winds were sleeping in their caves,

The placid stars, with holy light,

Shone down upon its inmost waves;

Then fell there from the cloudless skies,

Unto its depths so coldly clear,

The light of those immortal eyes

That gladden heaven's pure atmosphere.

And by a silent under-spring

The gentle waters ebb away

To where the leaping streamlets fling.
A thousand sparkles to the day.
May not the fountain's depths impart

Some image of the hidden worth

Of an unworldly, peaceful heart

Thus lit from heaven, thus gladdening earth.

BROWNE

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

161

PEACEFUL HOURS.

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POURS of romance, yes, I have mused away
The lavish glories of a summer's day,
Full oft beneath the forest's whispering shade,
Rocked by the thunders of the near cascade;

Or, more remote, have sought a gentler scene,
Where all around was fragrant, cool, and green;
Where flowerets oped their petals to emboss
With richer hues the dew-bespangled moss;
Where still the roar of neighbouring waters came,

By distance tempered, but in mood the same.
Yet thou, O Waterfall! that seem'st to be

A symbol meet of perpetuity,

E'en thou obey'st at times a loftier power,

Like some magician in his feeble hour.

Bleak Winter issues from his artic caves,

And chains thy strength, and curbs thy headlong waves;

Mute as the grave thy rolling thunders cease,

And where the tumult maddened-there is peace.

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

HERE is the tree the prophet threw

Into the bitter wave?

Left it no scion where it grew,

The thirsting soul to save?

GODWIN.

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