 | Poems |  |
[There is a fountain welling, yet unknown]
There is a fountain welling, yet unknown,
And shaded deeper than the untrod cave,
Where mortals venture not, and where have blown
No sweeping tempests—silent as the grave,
Yet mighty in its progress—and unquelled
By human prowess—flows the living stream
In full power, till, in icy bondage held
It murmurs—dies—nor yields a parting gleam;—
There is a region, veiled in sunless gloom,
Peopled by pygmy beings, and arrayed
In pomp exotic, alien pride,—the tomb
Of the ascetic eremite, inlayed
With all the aulic pearls, and gems, and flowers
Of kingly state, betrays not folly more
Than the full-festooned, but rayless bowers,
Delineated on the desert shore
By viewless hands, and pencilled in the shades
Of darkness and of beauty—love and hate—
There blooms the hyacinth through the op'ning glades
Of nightshade and of banewort—and dire fate
Amid the scene hath reared his darkling throne;
And shaded deeper than the untrod cave,
Where mortals venture not, and where have blown
No sweeping tempests—silent as the grave,
Yet mighty in its progress—and unquelled
By human prowess—flows the living stream
In full power, till, in icy bondage held
It murmurs—dies—nor yields a parting gleam;—
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Peopled by pygmy beings, and arrayed
In pomp exotic, alien pride,—the tomb
Of the ascetic eremite, inlayed
With all the aulic pearls, and gems, and flowers
Of kingly state, betrays not folly more
Than the full-festooned, but rayless bowers,
Delineated on the desert shore
By viewless hands, and pencilled in the shades
Of darkness and of beauty—love and hate—
There blooms the hyacinth through the op'ning glades
Of nightshade and of banewort—and dire fate
Amid the scene hath reared his darkling throne;
There is a clime by withered lilies strewn,
That glowed with incense erst—the lyre's soft tone
Is hushed to all the charms, that oft attune
The woodland wires—and cheerless nature droops,
And sighs the dirge through all her leafless grove,
And there the ungorged hawk, or ostrich swoops,
And unheard, unknown, is the turtle-dove;
That glowed with incense erst—the lyre's soft tone
Is hushed to all the charms, that oft attune
The woodland wires—and cheerless nature droops,
And sighs the dirge through all her leafless grove,
And there the ungorged hawk, or ostrich swoops,
And unheard, unknown, is the turtle-dove;
There is a dome that rears its turrets o'er
Desolation, beauties nor a ray impart
Of hope, or love—nor charm the joyless shore—
It is despair's domain—a broken heart;
Far more unknown than polar climes, that sleep
In dormant gloom, that eye ne'er gazed upon;
Than the dark mansions of the coral deep,
Or the drear palace of the torrid zone.
Desolation, beauties nor a ray impart
Of hope, or love—nor charm the joyless shore—
It is despair's domain—a broken heart;
Far more unknown than polar climes, that sleep
In dormant gloom, that eye ne'er gazed upon;
Than the dark mansions of the coral deep,
Or the drear palace of the torrid zone.
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