 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
THE WELL.
“Leap from thy mossy cavern'd bed,
Hither thy prattling waters bring;
Blandusia's muse shall crown thy head,
And make thee, too, a sacred spring.”
Hither thy prattling waters bring;
Blandusia's muse shall crown thy head,
And make thee, too, a sacred spring.”
Such were the lines, my friend, at noontide read,
Roundly inscribed upon that antique well.
The little streamlet tinkled like a bell,
And murmur'd sweetly from its grassy bed;
A shower of primrose blossoms decked its head:
Whilst, from the hawthorn bowers, rich music fell
In quires of rapture, ringing through the dell!
Even thus, oh classic Hall, the glory spread,
When thou and Sterne, with Inspiration fed,
Reposing here, the liquid numbers rung;—
The same delightful glade, Elysian plain,
Rejoiced your spirits, brooding in this shade:
Alas! the place is silent where ye sung,
But Nature yet maintains her ancient reign.
| The bard, and minor poems | |