 | Poems |  |
THE OLD FOUNTAIN.
I
Deep 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 there—
The babbling water spreads such superstitious fear.
II
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 blown-back hair,
And on the dancing spray its dead eyes ever stare.
8
III
From out a dolphin's mouth the water leapsAnd frets, and tumbles to its bed of gloom,
So dark the umbrage under which it sweeps,
Stretching in distance like a dreary tomb;
With murmurs fraught, and many a gibbering sound,
Gurgle, and moan and hiss, and plash and fitful bound.
IV
Oh! 'tis a spot where man might sit and weepHis 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.
V
There lovely forms in elder times were seen,And snowy kirtles waved between the trees;
And light feet swept along the velvet green,
9
When round the margin England's early daughters
Worshipped the rough-hewn Saint that yet bends o'er the waters.
VI
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.
VII
That old grey abbey lies in ruins now,—The wild-flowers wave where swung its pond'rous door:
Where once the altar rose, rank nettles grow,
The authem's solemn sound is heard no more;
'Tis as if Time had laid down to repose,
Drowsed by the fountain's voice which through the forest flows.
| Poems | |