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THE FLOWER OF THE FOUNTAIN.
(IVY-LEAVED BELL FLOWER.)
Thereby a chrystal stream did gently play,
Which from a sacred fountain welled forth alway.
Spenser.
Like to a little hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.
It was a blest retreat where I did find
This modest gem:
The forest trees above were intertwined,
And, under them,
From an old ruined fountain, gurgled out
A small clear stream, that circled them about.
And rippling gently onwards through the wood,
Leaped into light
Beyond the last old gnarled oak that stood
Beside the bright
And sparkling rivulet, like hoary age
Smiling at the pursuits that youth engage.
Over the fount's damp, mossy stones there grew,
Luxuriantly,
These little bells of faint and tender blue,
Which gracefully
