Steep arching rocks, with verdant moss o'ergrown,
Form her rude diadem, and native throne:
There in a gloomy cave her waters sleep,
Clear as a brook, but as an ocean deep.
Yet, when the waking flowers of April blow,
And warmer sunbeams melt the gather'd snow;
Rich with the tribute of the vernal rains,
The nymph, exulting, bursts her silver chains;
Her living waves in sparkling columns rise,
And shine like rainbows to the sunny skies;
From cliff to cliff the falling waters roar;
Then die in murmurs, and are heard no more.
Hence, softly flowing in a dimpled stream,
The crystal Sorga spreads a lively gleam;
From which a thousand rills in mazes glide,
And deck the banks with summer's gayest pride;
Brighten the verdure of the milling plains,
And crown the labour of the joyful swains.
First on these banks (ah, dream of short delight!)
The charms of Laura struck my dazzled sight;
Charms, that the bliss of Eden might restore,
That heaven might envy, and mankind adore.
I saw—
