When the road is rough, and the hot sands
bum;
Like a fount, or a bird, or a blooming tree,
To a weary spirit is such as she!
And Brother Abe, from his easy chair,
Looks thither by stealth with an aching care,
And in spite of the dragons that guard the
brink
Would stoop to the edge of the fount, I think,
And drink! and drink!