This little fountain night and day
So far from all the flowers,
Chants to itself, and flings away
A wealth of diamond showers.
Incessantly without demand,
Here Nature's purest gift
Moistens the unproductive sand,
Or floats the base sea-drift.
So from the living Rock above,
On stony hearts and ears
The message falls of Gospel love,
Where not a fruit appears.
Judge not, O stranger, thus, but know
There many a thirsty fleet
Has filled its casks to overflow,
And found the water sweet.
Though hearts awhile may stony prove,
And fruitless as the main,
God's mingled stream of truth and love
Has never flowed in vain.

THE DYING SWAN.

Host.
Tell me, O pilgrim! for my soul is stirred,
On what far shore the willing winds prolong
The melody of that imperial bird
Which sings to chill-eared death its only song.
Pilgrim.
Not mine Ogygian secrets to impart;
But this they said where vague Meander shone,
That only he who hath the poet's heart
May hear the music of the dying swan.

THE PEACOCK.

O paragon of feathered grace,
What charms thy neck enfold,
Backed by that glorious orbed space
Thick starred with eyes of gold.
Though Philomela soothe the night,
'Tis thine to paint the day;
And each a splendour and delight
Sheds on our earthly way.
So in thy beauty I rejoice,
Nor flout thy tuneless cries;
Peacocks with Philomela's voice,
Sing but in Paradise.