 | The poetical works of Barry Cornwall |  |
It is perhaps a fable: yet the hind
Tells it with reverence, and at times I deem
The tale allied to truth. They say yon brook
That circles with its silver arms that grove
Of forest trees, is—haunted: nay, you smile;
But I was born beside it, and through life,
Aye, 'midst the jarrings of this bitter world,
In pain, in calumny, my mind hath dwelt
Upon this stream as on some holy thought.
See where it wanders from its mossy cave,
And toward the dark wood, like a bashful thing
Surprised, runs trembling as for succour. Look!
Such streams as these did Dian love, and such
Naiads of old frequented. Still its face
Is clear as truth; and yet—it roams like error.
In former times, rivers were celebrate:
One told how Achelöus dived beneath
Sicilian seas, to meet his nymph divine,
The blue Arethusa; one (‘the loftiest’) sung
The rough Scamander, oh, and how he rushed
And mingled with Troy fight; and some did tell
Of Aganippe's fount; of Hippocrene,
And Simois, and ‘immortal Castaly.’
Tells it with reverence, and at times I deem
The tale allied to truth. They say yon brook
That circles with its silver arms that grove
Of forest trees, is—haunted: nay, you smile;
But I was born beside it, and through life,
Aye, 'midst the jarrings of this bitter world,
In pain, in calumny, my mind hath dwelt
Upon this stream as on some holy thought.
See where it wanders from its mossy cave,
And toward the dark wood, like a bashful thing
Surprised, runs trembling as for succour. Look!
Such streams as these did Dian love, and such
Naiads of old frequented. Still its face
172
In former times, rivers were celebrate:
One told how Achelöus dived beneath
Sicilian seas, to meet his nymph divine,
The blue Arethusa; one (‘the loftiest’) sung
The rough Scamander, oh, and how he rushed
And mingled with Troy fight; and some did tell
Of Aganippe's fount; of Hippocrene,
And Simois, and ‘immortal Castaly.’
| The poetical works of Barry Cornwall | |