We live—we bloom—but for ever o'er
Is the charm of the earth and sky:
To our life, ye heavens, that balm restore,
Or bid us die!"
"THE FOUNTAIN: A BALLAD.
Why startest thou back from that fount of sweet water?
The roses are drooping while waiting for thee;
'Ladye, 'tis dark with the red hue of slaughter,
There is blood on that fountain—oh! whose may it be?'
Uprose the ladye at once from her dreaming,