 | Poems |  |
65
THE FOUNTAIN,—BOSTON COMMON.
Yon fountain Nymph, now sparkling through the trees,In humble Natick wooed the mountain breeze.
There, 'mid the torrent, nursed in thunders loud
From the dark bosom of the stormy cloud,
Or gentlier fed, when Summer's showery train
In drops of music poured the welcome rain,
Her lot was cast, content to glide along,
Lulled by the ripple of her own sweet song.
The Indian maids, her playmates, passed away,
And still she waited for a brighter day,
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And stepped a Naiad in her charmèd hall,—
Sprang, crowned with grace, the monarch Elm beside,
And stood in radiant light, his young enchanted bride.
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