LINES
TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.
Once more, sweet stream! with slow foot wandering near,
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours,
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn),
My languid head shall wreathe thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove, with murmur rude,
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph Solitude;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the vale! thy useful streams supply
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh;
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks,
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve, with pensive look,
Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crook;
Or starting, passes with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-lov’d maid’s accustom’d tread;
She, vainly mindful of her dame’s command,
Loiters, the long-fill’d pitcher in her hand.
Unboasted stream! thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another’s woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing cloud impictur’d on thy breast.
Life’s current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silv’ry stole beneath the pensive moon.
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o’er the rough rock bursts and foams along!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.