BALLAD.

“Come tell me, merry Brooklet, of a gentle Maid I seek, Thou'lt know her by the freshness of the rose upon her cheek; Her eyes are chaste and tender, and so serenely bright, You can read her heart's pure secrets by their warm religious light.”

“The Maid has not come hither,” said the Brooklet in reply; “I've listened for her footfall ere the stars were in the sky; The Fountain has been singing of a Maid, with eyes so bright You may read the cherished secrets of her bosom by their light.”

“Pray tell me, merry Brooklet, what saith her thoughts of one Who wronged her loving nature ere the setting of the sun? What say they of yon autumn moon that smiles so mournfully On the slowly-dying season, and the blasted moorland tree?”

“She sitteth by the Fountain,” the Brook replied again, “Her heart as pure as heaven, and her thoughts without a stain; ‘ Oh, fickle moon, and changeful man!’ she saith,‘ a year ago All the paths were true-love-lighted where I'm groping now in woe.’

“She sitteth by the Fountain, the gentle mists arise, And kiss away the tear-pearls that tremble in her eyes, The Fountain singeth to me that the Maiden in her dream Shrinks as the vapours claim her as the Oread of the stream.”

Off sped the merry Streamlet adown the sloping vale; The Shepherd seeks the Fountain, where sits the Maiden pale; And to the wandering Brooklet, through many a lonely wild, The burden of the Fountain was, that Love was reconciled.