THE OLD FOUNTAIN.

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THE OLD FOUNTAIN.

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.

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And

THE OLD FOUNTAIN.

There lovely forms in elder times were seen,
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.

THOMAS MILLER.

ARE WE ALMOST THERE?

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ARE WE ALMOST THERE?

RE we almost there? are we almost there?

Said a dying girl as she drew near home; "Are those our poplar trees which rear

Their forms so high 'gainst the heaven's blue dome?"

Then she talked of her flowers, and thought of the well Where the cool water splashed o'er the large, white stone; And she thought it would soothe like a fairy spell,

Could she drink from that fount when the fever crept on.

While yet so young, and her bloom grew less,

They had borne her away to a kindlier clime,

For she would not tell 'twas only distress

Which had gathered life's rose in its sweet spring-time.

And she had looked where they bade her to look,

At many a ruin and many a shrine—

At the sculptured niche, and the pictured nook,
And, viewed from high places the sun's decline.

But in secret she sighed for a quiet spot,

Where she oft had played in childhood's hour; Though shrub or floweret marked it not,

'Twas dearer to her than the gayest bower.

And oft did she ask, "Are we almost there?"

But her voice grew faint and her flushed cheek pale;

And they strove to soothe her with useless care,
As her sighs escaped on the evening gale.

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THE VALE OF BAIAE.

Then swiftly, more swiftly, they hurried her on;

But anxious hearts felt a chill despair;

For when the light of that eye was gone,

And the quick pulse stopped, she was "almost there."

ANON.

THE BAY OF BAIAE.

ES! I have gazed from high Misenum's steep,
O'er the blue waters of the Tyrrhene deep;
Have seen outspread before my dazzled eyes
That glowing rivalry of seas and skies:

The shore, the classic shore, around me lay,
Each vine-clad precipice, each silvery bay;
There rose fair Pozzuoli's patrician bowers,
Baiae's rent fanes, and Cumae's ruined towers;

Green waved the copse, where lone Avernus slept;
Sparkling to shore Fusaro's ripples crept ;

Capri's steep rock, and Ischia's sloping height,

Traced their dark outline in the vivid light,

While o'er the scene's whole calm, yet bright repose,

With softened terrors far Vesuvius rose.

Each spot of haunted earth here breathed its tale,

Of the rapt Sybil; of the fated sail

That wafted to this strand the Phrygian throng;

Of Scipio's exile, and of Virgil's song.

Here, too, the purple masters of mankind,

The gorgeous cares of empire, pleased, resigned,

TO THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN GIRL.

And sought beneath Campania's azure sky
A charm the world's dominion could not buy ;
While Rome's degenerate nobles, feared no more,
On Zama's plain, or Actium's beetling shore,
Forgot to sigh, 'mid Baiae's golden bay,

For honour lost, or freedom cast away.

LORD MORPETH.

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TO THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN GIRL.

4RT thou some vision of the olden time,

Some glowing type of beauty, faded long ;
A radiant daughter of that radiant clime,
Renowned for sunshine, chivalry, and song?

Was it for thee that Tasso woke in vain

The love-lorn plainings of his matchess lyre?
Was thine the frown that chilled him with disdain,
Crushed his wild hopes, and quenched his minstrel fire?

Or art thou she for whom young Guido pined;
Whom Raffaelle saw in his impassioned dream,
The ray that flashed, in slumber, on his mind,
And o'er his canvas shed so bright a beam?

No, no; a masquer in its gay attire,

A breathing mockery of Ausonia's grace,
Thine is a charm as fitted to inspire,

With more than all their sweetness in thy face.