INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—

Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed

May all its agéd boughs o'er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone

Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,

Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller

With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,

Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,

As merry and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.

Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.

Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.

Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh

Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!