Fountain, that sparklest through the shady place,
Making a soft, sad murmur o'er the stones
That strew thy lucid way! Oh, if some guest
Should haply wander near, with slow disease
Smitten, may thy cold springs the rose of health
Bring back, and the quick lustre to his eye!
The ancient oaks that on thy margin wave,
The song of birds, and through the rocky cave
The clear stream gushing, their according sounds
Should mingle, and, like some strange music, steal
Sadly, yet soothing, o'er his aching breast.
And thou, pale exile from thy native shores,
Here drink,— oh, couldst thou!— as of Lethe's stream!
Nor friends, nor bleeding country, nor the views
Of hills or streams beloved, nor vesper bell,
Heard in the twilight vale, remember more!