Mrs. Secord. This spot is surely safe; here I will rest,
For unaccustomed service tires my limbs,
And I have travelled many a weary rood
More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs
Absorb so many steps that nothing add
To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.
Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make
Melodious symphonies and rippling runs
Among the pines and aspens, hear I not
A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides
Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?
[She rises and looks about.
Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy
That glances at the light, as careful, still,
To keep the pure translucency that first
It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill,
A few cool drops to slake my parching throat.
Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts
That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth
With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls