Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,
Greek sculpture; in some earlier days perhaps
A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock filled, overflowed it,
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost-stealing, unseen, unheard,
Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees-discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
I threw me down, admiring, as I lay,
That shady nook-a singing-place for birds,
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a maid a Maying.
The sun was down, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus; and now approached
The hour for stir and village gossip there.
The hour Rebecca came, when from the well
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels.
Footsteps; and, lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared,-
Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day
Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed,
Like one awaking in a distant time.
At length there came the loveliest of them all,
Her little brother dancing down before her;
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever,
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart.
And brotherly affection. Stopping there,
She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them
With the pure element, gave him to drink;
And, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tiptoe,
Looked down upon him with a sister's smile,
Nor stirred till he had done,-fixed as a statue.
Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova,
Thou hadst endowed them with eternal youth;
And they had evermore lived undivided,
Winning all hearts-of all thy works the fairest!
EEP in the bosom of a silent wood,
Where an eternal twilight dimly reigns,
A sculptured fountain hath for ages stood,
O'erhung with trees; and still such awe remains
Around the spot, that few dare venture near,-
The babbling water spreads a superstitious fear.
It looks so old and grey, with moss besprent,
And carven imagery, grotesque or quaint;
Eagles and lions are with dragons blent,
And cross-winged cherub; while o'er all a saint.
Bends grimly down with frozen back-blown hair,
And on the dancing spray its dead eyes ever stare.
From out a dolphin's mouth the water leaps,
And frets, and tumbles to its bed of gloom ;-
So dark the umbrage under which it sweeps,
Blackened by distance to a dreary tomb;
With murmurs fraught, and many a gibbering sound,
Gurgle, and moan, and hiss, and plash, and fitful bound.
Oh, 'tis a spot where man might sit and weep
His childish griefs and petty cares away;
Wearied ambition might lie there and sleep,
And hoary crime in silence kneel to pray.
The fountain's voice, the day-beams faintly given,
Tell of that star-light land we pass in dreams to heaven.
There lovely forms in elder times were seen,
And snowy kirtles waved between the trees;
And light feet swept along the velvet green;
And the rude anthem rose upon the breeze.
When round the margin England's early daughters
Worshipped the rough-hewn saint that yet bends o'er the waters.
And some bent priest, whose locks were white as snow,
Would raise his trembling hands and voice to pray;
All would be hushed save that old fountain's flow,
That rolling bore the echoes far away :
Perchance a dove, amid the foliage dim,
Might raise a coo, then pause to list their parting hymn.
But they are gone-and ages have passed by,
The inlaid missal will be seen no more,
And beauteous forms, and many a radiant eye
That flashed with joy and hope in days of yore,
Is darkened now, all stilled their bosom-throes,
While that old fountain's stream through the deep forest flows.
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