Adown whose side dashes a mountain stream,
Thousands of flowers bloom lovely at its foot,
These gather,—and then westward fly beyond
The sea, whose restless billows lash the cliffs
Which curb their mad career, and send their roar
Far inland—heard amid the hush of night—
There wilt thou find a rugged mountain, clothed
From base to summit, with a dark pine wood,
And in the midst thereof, a lonely spot
Where ray of sun or moon hath never pierced—
Under the bushes, dry and withered, there,—
Amidst the stones and moss, grows a white flower;
Within its cup a single drop of dew
Has slowly, slowly gathered—till it now
Imparts to the wan flower its own warm blush—
This bring me quick—but shake not from its breast
The precious drop.—Haste, lest the other sprites
Be here before thee.
PUCK.
