Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad’s rill
Met her with melody—sweet sounds and low:
We hear them yet, they live along its flow—
Her voice is music lost! The fountain-side
She gain’d—the wave flash’d forth—’twas darkly dyed
Even as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge,
Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep,
There lay, as lull’d by stream and rustling sedge,
A youth, a graceful youth. “Oh! dost thou sleep?
Azzo!” she cried, “my Azzo! is this rest?”