THE OLD FOUNTAIN. 235 THE OLD FOUNTAIN. EEP in the bosom of a silent wood, Where an eternal twilight dimly reigns, It looks so old and grey, with moss besprent, And cross-winged cherub; while o'er all a saint 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, Oh, 'tis a spot where man might sit and weep And hoary crime in silence kneel to pray. Tell of that star-light land we pass in dreams to heaven. 236 And THE OLD FOUNTAIN. There lovely forms in elder times were seen, 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, All would be hushed save that old fountain's flow, That rolling bore the echoes far away : Might raise a coo, then pause to list their parting hymn. But they are gone-and ages have passed by, 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? 237 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, 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, 238 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, The shore, the classic shore, around me lay, Green waved the copse, where lone Avernus slept; 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 For honour lost, or freedom cast away. LORD MORPETH. 239 TO THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN GIRL. 4RT thou some vision of the olden time, Some glowing type of beauty, faded long ; Was it for thee that Tasso woke in vain The love-lorn plainings of his matchess lyre? Or art thou she for whom young Guido pined; No, no; a masquer in its gay attire, A breathing mockery of Ausonia's grace, With more than all their sweetness in thy face. |