THE WAY-SIDE SPRING.
Fair dweller by the dusty way,
Bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day,
Weary and worn, is thine.
The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweet-brier and the violet,
The pious hand of spring has here
Upon thy altar set.
And not alone to thee is given
The homage of the pilgrim’s knee;
But oft the sweetest birds of heaven
Glide down and sing to thee.
Here daily from his beechen cell,
The hermit squirrel steals to drink,
And flocks which cluster to their bell,
Recline along thy brink.
And here the wagoner blocks his wheels,
To quaff the cool and generous boon;
Here from the sultry harvest fields
The reapers rest at noon.
And oft the beggar masked with tan,
In rusty garments gray with dust,
Here sits and dips his little can,
And breaks his scanty crust.
And lulled beside thy whispering stream,
Oft drops to slumber unawares,
And sees the angel of his dream
Upon celestial stairs.
Dear dweller by the dusty way,
Thou saint within a mossy shrine.
The tribute of a heart to day,
Weary and worn, is thine!
Thomas Buchanan Read.