Aye, since this fountain first was plann’d,
And Dryad learnt to drink,
Have lovers held, knit hand in hand,
Sweet parley at its brink.
From youth to age this waterfall
Most tunefully flows on,
But where, aye! tell me where, are all
Those constant lovers gone?
The falcon on the turtle preys,
And fondest vows are lither,
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.
“Thy Russet Pitcher set adown,
Fair maid, and list to one
Who much this sorry world hath known,—
A muser thereupon.
Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold,
Youth flatters and beguiles,
Though Giles is young,—and I am old,—
Ne’er trust thy heart to Giles.
Thy Pitcher may some luckless day
Be broken coming hither,
Thy doting slave may prove a knave,—
The fairest roses wither.”
She laugh’d outright, she scorn’d him quite,
She fill’d her Russet Pitcher;—
For that dear sight an anchorite
Might deem himself the richer.
Ill-fated maiden! go thy ways,
Thy lover’s vows are lither,
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.
* * * * *
These days are soon the days of yore;
Six summers pass, and then
That musing man would see once more
The fountain in the glen.