But they which inherit the mountain-crest, or the rushing rill,
And the Forest-haunters, were ranged from the fountain far away.
But it fell that the Water-nymph came floating up that day
From the depths of the fair-flowing spring:—lo, over her bendeth his face
In the rosy flush of its beauty, its manifold winsome grace. {1230}
For the full moon casting her beams from the height of the firmament
Smote him, and faintness of love on her soul the Cyprian sent,
And scarce she unravelled her thoughts in sweet confusion blent.
But over the fountain’s brim as aforetime aslant hath he bowed,
And plunged in the ripple the pitcher: the water gurgled loud