JULY 1786.

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!