LINES

Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled! Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell, Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side From whom thou hast thy birth, I bless thy gleam

Of clearest coldness, with as deep-felt love As pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine; And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heart In thy restoring radiance, from my lips

A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleep A gentle tremor! Nor must I forget A benison for the departed soul

Of him, who, many a year ago, first shaped This little Font,— emprisoning the spring Not wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone, Now in the beauteous colouring of age

Scarcely distinguished from the natural rock. In blessed hour the solitary man Laid the first stone,— and in his native vale It serves him for a peaceful monument,

‘ Mid the hill-silence. Renovated life Now flows through all my veins:— old dreams revive; And while an airy pleasure in my brain

Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze, Even with a happy lover's kindest looks, On Thee, delicious Fountain! Thou dost shed

( Though sultry stillness fill the summer air And parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave, A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring Breathes with his April showers. The narrow lane

On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks, That from the road-side gently lead the eye Up to thy bed,— Ah me! how rich a green, Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass!

With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze, Now that my thirsty soul is gratified, Live on the little cell! The water there, Variously dappled by the wreathed sand

That sleeps below in many an antic shape, Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand

Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse Tells of the living principle within,— A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild. Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot

Beyond this well:— it is inhabited By an old shepherd during summer months, And haply he may drink of the pure spring, To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn

Going to pray,— or as he home returns At silent eve: or traveller such as I, Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills, Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst

Once in a season. Other visitants It hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow, When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering colt Leaving its pasture for the shady lane.

Methinks, in such a solitary cave, The fairy forms belated peasant sees, Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring, On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire

To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe Their tiny limbs in this transparent well. A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell,

Native to these our hills, and ever seen A fairest family by the happy side Of their own parent spring;— and others too, Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,

Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth, Here smile like strangers in a novel scene. Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom, Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans

Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness, Like some fair virgin at the humble door Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet

The way-bewildered traveller. But my soul Long pleased to linger by this silent cave, Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,

Pants for a loftier pleasure,— and forsakes, Though surely with no cold ingratitude, The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well. A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths,

And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks, Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow, Is ready for my footsteps, and even now, Wast-water blackens far beneath my feet,

She the storm-loving Lake. Sweet Fount!— Farewell!